The Draco Malfoy Saga
by Malvolia
Summary: A compilation of one-shots in which Draco: Loses his smirk; Gets the girls; Fends off American exchange students; Finds Snape; Dates a Delacour; Braves the Muggle world; Marries; Defects; and Acquires an heir. Written before the series ended.
1. Draco Malfoy and the Winning Smile

It started out as a perfectly ordinary day for Draco Malfoy. He woke to the sound of Crabbe and Goyle's alarm clocks, as obnoxiously loud as usual. As usual, he proceeded to wake up the still sleeping Crabbe and Goyle by chucking their respective clocks at them. Grumbling, he slouched out of bed and down the hall to the bathroom. He took his comb and a jar of hair gel off of his shelf, then turned to the mirror to practice nasty facial expressions for the benefit of Harry Potter and his annoying do-gooder sidekicks. It was then that he noticed that something was wrong.

His smirk would not work. Nor his scowl. Nor his snarl. Nor his sneer. He couldn't look sullen or sour or sinister. After a brief experiment, he discovered he couldn't skulk, and suddenly even slouching about was now out of the question. _And who _is _Draco Malfoy_, he wondered in terror, _without the smirking, snarling, scowling, sneering, skulking, slouching, sour, sullen sinisterness suited to Slytherins?_ He faced the mirror again, trying desperately to make the muscles in his face work properly. Finally, something happened, but it wasn't much better than the blank expression that came before.

Draco Malfoy was smiling. And not just any smile. It was a bright, cheerful, winning smile. It looked..._sincere_. He heard footsteps in the hall behind him, and he hid in one of the stalls. He didn't want anyone to see him smiling like this, especially not this early in the morning. It wasn't human.

Crabbe and Goyle lumbered into the bathroom, breathing heavily through their mouths, which hung open in vacant expressions. (_At least _they _still seem to be acting normally,_ thought Draco, peering out at them.)

"Where's Draco?" asked Crabbe.

"Dunno. Thought he'd have been in here," replied Goyle.

They stared dully at each other for a moment.

"Better get down to breakfast, then," said Crabbe.

"Right," said Goyle. They turned and exited, leaving Draco to the panicked realization that he was not going to be able to avoid everyone all day. Madame Pomfrey would surely not sign a leave of absence slip for a smiling problem. He was going to have to figure out some excuse for—Potter. This must be his fault. Everyone knew Potter and his gang were out to get the Slytherins, and Draco in particular. There was a lot of bad blood between—Granger. She would know what to do. The little showoff had practically memorized the entire library. And since she had probably done this to him in the first place, she should know how to reverse it. Better not to go to a professor. He would keep a low profile, try not to get Potter's group into trouble...officially. Save the revenge for himself. He tried to rub his hands together menacingly, but for some reason it didn't work. _Blast_.

* * *

Breakfast was quite awkward. Everyone was staring at him. He tried to keep his head down as he ate so he wouldn't have to make eye contact with anyone. Keeping his head down caused his hair to fall into his eyes. That was odd. Why would it... He suddenly remembered the comb and the jar of hair gel, sitting unopened on the edge of the sink where he had left it in his amazement at discovering his face was no longer his to control. _Wonderful_. Rushing out of the Great Hall after bolting his eggs and toast, he almost ran into Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, who were just arriving.

"Watch it, Malfoy!" Weasley snapped. Draco envied him. He couldn't snap anymore even if he wanted to. And he did want to.

"Morning, Potter. Weasley." He nodded and continued on his way, finding himself pleasantly surprised at the expression of shock on their faces. _This might be more fun than I expected_, he said to himself. _Perhaps it's time for a slight change of plan_.

* * *

He arrived at Potions class early on purpose, sure he would find Hermione Granger there already. There she was, straightening her books so that they sat at right angles to the edges of the desk. "Must be nice to have a life," he almost said, biting his tongue to prevent the comment from escaping. Instead, he said, "This seat taken, Hermione?"

"I'm afraid it's reserved," she said, not looking up. She didn't seem to recognize his voice.

He sat down anyway. "Got a question for you," he continued, in a (depressingly enough) pleasant tone.

She turned her head to look at him. Her eyes widened and her arm jerked suddenly, knocking her books off the desk. She bent to retrieve them, but he stopped her with a gesture.

"No, no," he said. "Allow me." With his head under the desk, he could still hear other students filing into the room. A familiar voice said, "Hermione! You didn't save our seats!"

Draco straightened up, and handed the books to Hermione. "It's all right," he said over his shoulder. "I won't bite, you know." He turned and flashed his winning smile at an astonished Weasley and Potter.

"Great jumping Caesar's ghost," said Weasley in a shaky voice.

"What are you up to, Malfoy?" asked Potter coldly.

"Nothing, nothing!" said Draco. "What's wrong with me sitting by the mu-"—the sound dragged on as he scrambled for a word to replace "mudblood"—"mmmmmuhhhh-AHvelous Hermione Granger?" He thought of patting Granger on the shoulder in a friendly sort of way, but decided that he was pushing it as it was.

Weasley's ears were getting very red, and his eyes were narrowing to little slits. Potter was looking at Draco dubiously.

"Whatever you're up to," said Potter, "you won't get away with it."

Draco had never realized just how prejudiced Potter's gang was against him. Here he was, not insulting them, not throwing things at them, not framing them for anything. He was only trying to be ingratiating, and they were being impossible. His only hope was to appeal to Hermione's feminine sense of fairness. If she could put up with these two, she wouldn't stand a chance against the persuasive charm of the new Draco Malfoy. She would have to let her guard down. She would have to be his friend. And then...he'd make her pay for turning him into a spineless toady.

"If you want to switch seats, Ron," he said innocently—it felt wrong to call them by their first names, but it was all part of his plan—"you're more than welcome to. I didn't mean"_—to split up the Three Musketeers—_"to inconvenience anyone."

Weasley eyed him cautiously, as if weighing the odds that he had booby-trapped the chair. "That's okay," he finally said, in a voice that declared it was anything but okay. He sat down, looking as though he were making a supreme sacrifice, but unwilling to abandon Hermione to the horrible fate of sitting alone with Draco Malfoy. Potter sat next to Weasley, looking pleased that Weasley had not made _him_ sit next to Draco.

Snape slunk into the room. Draco winced with the pain of nostalgia as he remembered the days when he could slink. Maybe it was just because of the special bond all Slytherins shared that Draco thought Snape seemed to be in a bad mood.

"What is the last word of the fourth paragraph of the sixteenth chapter of your textbook? Potter?" he almost yelled, swiveling around suddenly.

Potter looked at him blankly. Weasley choked on an Every Flavor Bean. Draco gasped at the narrow escape he had just had...Granger had almost knocked off his nose as she threw her hand into the air.

"Don't know, eh, Potter?" snarled Snape. "Of course not. Why _would_ you? Nobody in this bloody class is worth anything! And then there's Longbottom, of course, living proof that it's possible to be less than nothing."

Neville squirmed and turned quite pale.

"Anyone know the answer?"

Granger waved her hand furiously.

"Anyone at all?"

Granger climbed onto her chair and began jumping up and down.

"_NOBODY?_"

Draco raised his hand calmly.

"What is it?" Snape growled.

"It appears to me that Miss Granger knows the answer," said Draco.

"Oh it _does_, does it?" said Snape. He looked from Draco's winning smile to his slightly tousled, gel-free hair. "Ten points from Gryffindor!" he said.

"What? But he's in Slytherin!" said Weasley without thinking.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor!" Snape leaned over the desk and peered darkly into Weasley's angry face. "Go ahead, Weasley," he hissed. "Make my day."

Weasley blinked furiously. Draco was amused to see a tear escape.

Snape wheeled on Granger. "Sit down immediately and stop disturbing my class, or I'll take thirty more points!"

Granger slid into her seat quietly, but Draco noticed a very interesting emotion in her eyes. It was hatred. He looked at Weasley and Potter. Their eyes held the same emotion. Weasley was sketching a small picture of Snape being run through by a unicorn. Draco felt a surge of excitement inside. He could relate to these people, after all. It would have been a perfect time for a sinister smirk, if he had only been able to manage it.

* * *

"I never got to ask you," began Draco as he approached Granger, but he was cut off.

"Shut up, Malfoy," said Weasley, who was sitting across from Granger and next to Potter. "We're in the library."

_I can see that for myself, Mr. Obvious. _"Not to change the subject," Draco said with his friendly smile, "but have you ever noticed how segregated this school is?"

"Not segregated enough," muttered Weasley at the same time as Granger said, "That's not true!"

"Isn't it?" said Draco. He pointed at each of the library tables in turn. "Hufflepuffs...Ravenclaws...Slytherins...more Hufflepuffs...and here we have Gryffindors."

"Which brings us to the all-important question of why you don't just scuttle off and leave us be," said Weasley, pretending to be very absorbed in a copy of _Hogwarts: A History_ that Draco suspected he had swiped from Granger's pile of books.

Draco tried and succeeded to put on his best wounded expression. "Can't we all just get along?"

"Most of the houses do get along," said Granger. "It's just the Slytherins that hate everyone else."

"Is it?" asked Draco. "Or is it everyone else that hates the Slytherins?"

Granger was stumped by that one. Instead of answering, she changed the subject. "The houses interact. Harry has a crush on that Hufflepuff girl."

"She's from Ravenclaw," said Weasley.

"Hufflepuff!" said Granger before Potter could butt in.

"Whatever, I just know she's not a Gryffindor," said Weasley, then froze. His eyes met Granger's with a hunted expression.

"Goodness," said Granger in a small voice. "Maybe he's right."

Potter broke in hurriedly. "Are you crazy? This is Malfoy we're talking about. _Malfoy!_ From _Slytherin!_ Remember, the house all the Dark Lords come from?"

"When you think about it," said Draco in a pensive voice, "is it any wonder that a group of people who have been socially persecuted and cut off from normal interaction with others turn inward, become blighted and bitter, and seek to gain respect by whatever means necessary?"

Weasley and Granger shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. Potter rolled his eyes. "This from the head of the 'Pureblood's Only Club.'"

Draco pretended not to understand. "I don't understand," he said, only pretending. "I've never heard of this 'Pureblood's Only Club.'"

"It's...a...metaphor," growled Potter. "Everyone knows your father was in league with Voldemort, and you were looking pretty happy last year when the Death Eaters came out of hiding."

Draco shook his head mournfully. "Sadly, Harry, you can never understand. Your parents were—again, sadly—killed before you knew them." _So there, Potter. Don't need sneering to drive it home, do I?_ "And had they lived, they may never—I won't say _would_ never, because these things are so hard to predict—they may never have become the domineering types. You can have no idea what it's like having a father who expects you to follow in his footsteps exactly. Who trains you to hate people just because of their family heritage. Who is so demanding that..." He choked out what he hoped sounded like a sob. "I'm sorry. I can't go on."

Weasley and Granger sat in silence, but Potter said, "I can't believe you two are actually considering believing him!"

"Well, you know," said Granger timidly, "people are allowed to change, you know."

"Some never do," said Potter. "Some always stay the same."

"How one-dimensional," said Draco. "How boring for people to stay static. Surely you don't believe that, Harry?"

But Potter had gathered his books and was stalking out of the library.

"Oh, dear," said Draco. _Easily offended, as usual. Weak._ "I hope it wasn't something I said?"

"Now look here, Malfoy," said Weasley. "You've got to admit that this sudden transformation is a little hard to swallow."

"I'm going to be frank with you, Ron," said Draco. "It was a shock to me, too. But it appears that I've developed a conscience. Either that or it's a spell." He laughed (a jolly laugh, not a sinister laugh—how he hated himself), but he darted a glance at Granger, who looked as puzzled as he felt.

A clatter of books falling to the floor made them all look toward the bookshelves. Neville Longbottom was crouching over his fallen pile of books, picking them up and balancing them awkwardly in the crook of his left arm.

"Let me help with that, Neville," said Draco politely. _Clumsy fool._ "That's really too much for you to carry." He picked up a hefty volume called _Creative Curses: Harmless Curses to Amuse Your Friends and Infuriate Your Enemies_. "Isn't 'harmless curse' a bit of an oxymoron?" he asked.

Longbottom practically lunged for the book, dropping all the others again as he did so. Draco handed the book over and picked up another. "_Pavlov's Bell: A Beginner's Guide to Behavior Modification_." His eyes gleamed. "Doing some extracurricular research, Neville?"

"Y-y-y...no," stammered Longbottom.

"I'm impressed," said Draco. "I truly am. Never would have expected it of you."

"Nobody expects much of me," said Neville apologetically.

"Well, we've obviously been deceived," said Draco. "You are not someone to be underestimated." He smiled his winning smile once again and twitched his hair out of his eyes. The smile Neville gave him in return was rather shaky.

"However," continued Draco, "neither am I."

Neville's smile disappeared.

"I could be persuaded to forget this whole thing," said Draco, "if you happen to have a counter-charm in those books somewhere."

"What's going on over here?" asked Weasley. He and Granger were hovering over them. _Nosy brats._

Granger, who was always quicker on the uptake than Weasley, had already taken in the situation. "Isn't it obvious, Ron?"

"Oh, yeah, now that you mention it," said Weasley. "Glaringly obvious."

By an amazing act of self-control, Granger stopped herself from launching another of the petty little fights she and Weasley got into at least twice a book—that is, a week. Instead, she launched into her explanation.

"_Creative Curses_ (chapter 18, page 298) is the only place I've ever seen the Sonrieus Curse." As usual, her explanation was designed to highlight her intellectual superiority to everyone around her by making them ask...

"The _what?_" asked Weasley.

"More commonly known as the Happiness Curse."

"The Happiness..._Curse_? I don't follow."

"No matter how awful you feel, or how nasty you want to be, you are forced to smile and speak pleasantly."

Weasley grinned. "That explains a lot." He whirled on Draco. "HA! You're evil, after all! It's all a sham! And one pulled by _Neville_, no less! Way to go, Neville! Who would have guessed!" Granger jabbed him with her quill.

"Not even your friends appreciate your talent," said Draco. "Horrible."

"That's not what I meant!" Weasley said quickly. "I just thought Neville was too _nice_ to curse anyone." Neville smiled again.

_Brilliant recovery, Weasley. Good thing Longbottom's so gullible, eh?_

_

* * *

_

It had been a sleepless night, despite Longbottom's quaking assurance that he would perform the counter-charm as soon as he could be sure he wouldn't be caught by any of the other Gryffindors. Draco Malfoy was awake before Crabbe and Goyle's alarms went off. Tentatively, he tightened the muscles around his mouth. He picked up a small mirror next to his bed and peered into it. His reflection smirked back at him. He smiled, a refreshingly sinister smile. He snuck out of bed and skulked down the hall to the bathroom.

He found his comb and hair gel waiting for him.


	2. Draco Malfoy and the Chick Magnet

Never trust an owl you don't know. How many times had his father warned him? True, his father (not being as popular as his son) had to worry about owls bearing explosive curses. Still, the principle held true.

He supposed it was the Weasleys' doing. It looked like their handiwork. He never ceased to be astounded at how slowly Weasleys matured. He turned the object over in his hands. It was shaped like a U, mostly black with red tips.

"What is it, Draco?" asked Crabbe. Draco, pleased to hear his lackey speak in a full sentence, nodded at him approvingly before answering.

"Isn't it obvious?" _Can't show ignorance in front of the whole Great Hall_. Not that he ever showed ignorance if he could help it. Leave that to life's losers.

"Uh, yeah," said Goyle, for once catching on.

"_I_ know," said Crabbe. "Just making conversation."

"You most certainly do not know," said Draco. "You can't even begin to know."

"What is it, then?" repeated Crabbe.

"If you don't know," said Draco, putting the strange object into a pocket in his robes, "then I'm not going to tell you."

"Come on!" cried Goyle.

"It's for your own good," said Draco, trying to look superior and (as always) succeeding. "When you finally get around to figuring it out, let me know. Then we can talk about it." He patted the pocket of his robes in a knowing manner.

"Pass the butter, would you, Draco?" said Pansy Parkinson simperingly.

Was it his imagination, or was she even smarmier than usual today? His lip curled in disgust. _If there's one thing I can't stand, it's Harry Potter. If there are two things I can't stand, they're Harry Potter and sappy females._ He slid the butter across the table to Pansy, who grabbed his hand before he could pull it back.

"Thank you," she said in a sultry voice.

His eyebrows twitched, but otherwise he managed to maintain his composure. Snatching his hand back, he rose abruptly. "Crabbe! Goyle!" he said, still keeping eye contact with Pansy as if she would attack him the moment he looked away.

His loyal followers leapt to their feet, knocking their knees on the table and jostling the butter dish right off into Pansy's lap. Her moment of distraction created a perfect escape opportunity.

"Heel!" Draco commanded, and he, Crabbe, and Goyle exited the room in a swish of robes.

* * *

_Potions with the Gryffindors. Honestly, who makes up these schedules? Every blasted year, Potions with the Gryffindors. Helps to keep Potter in line, most likely. Keeps his head from exploding with the persistent pressures of popularity. At least we have Snape for Potions, the one professor in this school who doesn't have a grudge against Slytherins. Why the man wants the Defense Against the Dark Arts post is beyond me. Must have a death wish. Much as I hate to think it, looks like Dumbledore knows what he's about on that one. I always...hullo. What's this?_

Hermione Granger sidled up to Draco. "This seat taken?" she asked.

Draco looked around at Crabbe and Goyle, who shrugged. _Serves me right for not creating a buffer zone._ "It's reserved," he said. The conversation sounded eerily familiar.

"For?" said Granger quickly.

"For someone who's not you," said Draco sedately.

She looked like she was going to cry.

"Look," sneered Draco, "helpful as you weren't last week during the whole—he shuddered—"smiling debacle, I feel I must reemphasize that we are not friends."

Her lower lip trembled. This was rather enjoyable.

"As a matter of fact," he continued with energy, "we are so far from being friends that I believe our relationship is more accurately characterized by the term 'hatred and loathing.'"

"Hatred and loathing are synonyms," said Granger, unable to let an opportunity for showing off pass her by, even on the brink of what appeared to be a nervous breakdown.

"Bravo," said Draco, with an expression of mock surprise. "Tell you what, be a good girl and write down as many synonyms as you can think of for hatred and loathing, then read the list over and over, reminding yourself that those are the words that describe my feelings for you and that therefore you should go away and leave me alone."

Tears were streaming down her cheeks. _I don't know what's gotten into her today, but I like it_, thought Draco, feeling the pleasant sense of power he always felt when he made someone cry. It was so hard to make Slytherins cry. Most of them had enchanted their tear ducts away.

"Emphasis on the leaving me alone part," he added.

But instead of rushing off to the corner to hide her wounded humiliation, Granger flung herself into the seat beside him and—much worse—threw her arms around his neck.

"I hate this class," said Harry Potter, who had just entered with his shadow, Ron Weasley. He rubbed his scar. He was always doing that. Trying to draw attention to himself, _as_ usual.

"Yeah, I hate Malfoy, too," said Weasley, who didn't seem to be paying attention to Potter at all. _The scar ploy didn't work this time, Potter!_ "I'm gonna bash his head in. That's what I'm gonna do. Should have done it a long time ago."

"Stop blocking the doorway!" bellowed Snape, shoving Potter and Weasley out of the way as he stormed into the room, robes billowing around him. "What are you gawking..." He caught sight of Draco in the front row, struggling to disentangle himself from the arms of Granger, who was sobbing "I love you! I love you!" and trying to kiss him.

Snape swore. Ron repeated him. Snape took thirty points from Gryffindor for use of improper language in the classroom and fifty points for unwarranted and uncalled for expression of affection in said classroom. He pulled Granger off Draco and exiled her to the back corner, where she sat looking dazed and very red in the face.

"At this rate, this will be the first year Gryffindor gets negative points in the house cup totals," moaned Potter as he headed to join Granger, dragging Weasley behind him.

Draco smiled his sinister smile.

* * *

The smile soured on the way to lunch. It seemed that every female he passed within two feet of began making an absolute ninny of herself, weeping and wailing and reciting very bad poetry that she was obviously making up as she went along. All too soon Draco Malfoy found himself surrounded by a gaggle of girls who were obviously not in their right minds. _I know I'm sexy, in the dangerous, rebel without a cause, mothers-lock-up-your-daughters sort of way. But my personal charms are not meant to ensnare the riffraff of the wizarding world._ He pushed Ginny Weasley out of his path. She was holding out a big red lacy valentine decorated with pudgy cupids and (for some reason) fluffy bunnies. _It's November, you fool. _He began to suspect that he wasn't going to be hungry for lunch.

"What I don't understand," he heard Ron Weasley saying bitterly from around the corner just ahead, "is what's so all-fired attractive about Malfoy."

Draco skidded to a halt and signaled his troop of admirers to be quiet. They swooned at this acknowledgment of their presence and fell silent, or as silent as it was possible for a group of ten girls who were all trying to get closer to him at once.

"I suppose it's the fact that he's a hideous blot on the face of the earth," replied Potter. "Women love a challenge."

"You'd think they'd be sensible enough to recognize a bad thing when they see one," said Weasley.

"They're probably laboring under the delusion that they can reform him," said Potter. "Besides, what you can't have is always more attractive than what you can have."

"Come off it, Harry!" said Weasley. "Since when are you the expert on women and theories of attraction?"

"I'm only saying..."

"You're only saying that a nice guy never gets the girl! You're only _saying_ that guys like us don't have a chance!"

"I don't know," said Potter thoughtfully. "You can be pretty combative."

There was a pause. Weasley obviously needed time to process that one. Draco was just about to move on when he heard Granger's voice ahead.

"Hello," she said weakly. "Coming to lunch?"

"Oh, it's you," said Weasley gruffly. "Not eating with your precious Malfy?"

_Malfy? Someday, I swear I'll kill him._

"Ignore him," said Potter.

"Ron!" shouted Granger. "Someday, I swear I'll kill you!"

"You and what army?" said Weasley. _Creative._

"It's a _spell_, you dolt! It has to be a spell! There's no way so many women could fall for Malfoy under natural circumstances."

"Hey," Draco muttered sourly, but he continued listening. Granger might have the solution to his little dilemma. He looked around. About six more girls had joined the crowd. It didn't look like any girl who tried to walk down the hall had gone past him. _If I had room to think, I'm sure I could come up with a way to use them to take over the world._ As it was, it was enough of a struggle to breathe properly.

"Out of curiosity," said Weasley, "who _would_ you be likely to fall for under normal circumstances? I ask merely for information."

"Don't be an idiot, Ron," said Granger. "I'm trying to be serious. Why do you always have to be so combative?"

Weasley's sudden intake of breath indicated that he must have taken this remark well.

"I mean, I have enough to worry about. Everyone's making fun of me, and I have to live with the memory of making a fool of myself, and it took me three tries to wash his hair gel off my hands."

"We were talking about spells," prodded Potter.

"I was just going to sit in the row behind him, and next thing I knew, I was...I was..." She made a choking noise. "And then when Snape pulled me away, sanity came rushing back to me, and that was almost more horrible, since I can remember _everything_."

"So, a spell, huh?" asked Potter impatiently. "What have you found out?"

Another pause.

"Nothing. I'm just saying it has to be one."

"Oh, brilliant, Hermione," said Weasley in a nettling tone. "Our little genius, as always."

"Let's just say I'm as intelligent as Weasleys are obnoxious."

Their footsteps faded as they continued into the Great Hall. Draco decided he wasn't hungry enough to—Weasleys. What did that remind him of? _Never trust an owl you don't know._ He fished around in his robes and drew out the U-shaped object.

"But what is it?" he asked, examining it closely.

"It's a magnet!" squeaked Ginny.

_Weasleys! Their father is the biggest Muggle-lover in the Ministry of Magic. This must be some enchanted Muggle artifact!_

"You!" he said, beckoning Ginny. The other girls in his entourage glared at her and blocked her path. "The rest of you better clear off," he snarled. "I'll deal with you later."

They moved aside to let Ginny through, which was not exactly Draco's notion of "clearing off." Indeed, after letting Ginny get close enough, they circled around again. Draco was beginning to feel decidedly claustrophobic.

"What do you know?" he said in a low voice.

"Oooo, Draco," she squealed, squeezing his arm. "You're so manly... And your cold eyes send shivers down my spine..."

_Sickening. _Steeling his resolve and grinding his teeth, Draco persisted. "What do you know about the magnet?" he snapped. In one swift, fluid motion, he grabbed her wrist, twisted it so she released her grasp on him, and held it at an uncomfortable angle. "Talk."

"Magnets attract metal," she began hurriedly, although she seemed oddly excited that he had touched her at all. The other girls around them were practically growling with jealousy. _Masochistic loonies._ "I think they're made of metal, too, but I don't know. Anyway, metal attracted to a magnet will become magnetized, and attract more metal, but not as strongly, and I don't know why, but I think it has something to do with a load of stone and the North Pole."

But Draco was no longer listening to her babbling. A switch in his brain had connected. He now knew what was wrong with him, how to fix it, and who had probably caused it. Granger had been right. It was a spell. It just wasn't a spell on him.

Being the type of person who preferred a direct, confrontational solution to an indirect, simple solution, Draco stalked into the Great Hall, the crowd of "magnetized" girls trailing behind him. Ignoring startled looks from students and professors alike, he walked right up to the Gryffindor table and pointed the magnet directly at one particular female.

"No!" gasped Fred Weasley as Angelina Johnson practically jumped out of her chair and into Draco's waiting arms.

"Hello, Weasley," said Draco calmly, pocketing the magnet. "Thanks for the invention. I'd recognize your workmanship anywhere." He wrapped his arms more securely around Angelina and rested his chin on the top of her head.

"Get away from her, you lousy..."

"Malfoy! Weasley! You...you girls!" Professor Snape sputtered. "What is going on here?"

Draco turned to Snape, greatly relieved that it was he and not Professor McGonagall, who usually swooped down at the slightest sign that any Gryffindor was being in any way inconvenienced. "I think we should discuss that out in the hall, if you don't mind, sir," he drawled lazily.

"Move it," said Snape harshly to the Weasley twins.

"But I..." began George.

"You are most likely up to your neck in whatever your brother is up to," Snape interrupted. "Move it."

_So you thought you could outsmart Draco Malfoy? Please._

It was a defeated pair of Weasley twins who returned to the Gryffindor table, an embarrassed group of girls who skipped lunch to form a support group, and a triumphant Draco Malfoy who regaled the Slytherin table with stories that would ensure the necessity of such a support group. Still, there was the matter of Granger's insistence that no one would ever fall for him without being enchanted. Only one way to test that theory. He smirked across the table at Pansy Parkinson. She smirked back and winked at him.

_Who says only opposites attract?_


	3. Draco Malfoy and the Yankee Invasion

Their table was enchanted. There was no other way to explain how so many Gryffindors all fit into the Great Hall at meals, unless they were on rotations. Most of the seats at the Slytherin table were occupied by shadowy forms that looked like they would be people if they could only figure out the trick of it. It was the same with the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables, for that matter. Not that he didn't prefer shadowy Slytherins to glory-hog Gryffindors. It was just one more piece of evidence that the school was prejudiced in favor of Gryffindor. Not that any more evidence was needed.

"What's so interesting about the Gryffindors?" asked Pansy Parkinson.

Draco Malfoy turned his attention back to the Slytherin table.

"Do they seem louder than usual?" he asked.

Pansy tilted her head attentively and considered for a moment. "Yes," she concluded. "Quite a feat for them. Probably all the Americans."

"Most likely," said Draco absently, pushing his food around on his plate. Just as he speared a potato with his knife, he realized what Pansy had said. "Americans?" he asked. "What Americans?"

"Over the past four years the American student population of Hogwarts has grown from zero to who-knows-how-many," said Pansy. "They just keep coming."

"Why?" asked Draco, puzzled. "Don't they have their own wizarding school?"

Pansy shrugged.

Draco looked over at the Gryffindor table again. "Is that where they keep all of them?"

"Mostly," said Pansy.

"Why haven't I noticed them before?" asked Draco suspiciously.

"Maybe you were too busy plotting nefarious schemes against Potter and his gang," said Pansy. "Why are you so interested in Americans? I think they're boring."

Draco had no answer. He didn't know how to explain it, but something felt wrong.

"The two American girls assigned to Slytherin last week seem to be interested in you, too, though," said Pansy with a smile that could have frozen the sun. "Can't stop talking about you, in fact. Something about how sexy you'd look in leather pants."

Very wrong.

* * *

"Draco!" called a voice from behind him. "Draco Malfoy! Wait up!"

He stopped in his tracks and stared back at the girl who was pounding up the hallway towards him. He had never seen her before in his life, but she sounded... _Great. An American._

"I'm Jenny," said the girl perkily. "Jenny Douglas. We have Potions together."

He looked her over, from her perfectly styled blond hair to her "I Love NY" T-shirt to her clunky platform shoes and back to her perky smile. "Gryffindors and Slytherins don't really talk," he said, and continued down the hallway.

She laughed as she caught up with him again. "But I'm not a Gryffindor, silly!" she said. "I'm a Slytherin!"

"You're not," said Draco, stopping in shock.

"I am," she said. "I'm from New York."

Before he could process how this declaration connected to anything, she continued.

"I'm an exchange student. I'm taking the place of Cho Chang. I play Quidditch, too. I heard you're the Slytherin seeker and I thought we should get to know each other. I love your accent, by the way."

His mind reeled with the effort to comprehend what she was saying. "I thought you said you were a Slytherin," he said.

"Uh-huh!" she chirped.

"But you traded places with Cho, who's a Ravenclaw."

"Yup."

"And yet you're playing seeker for the Ravenclaw Quidditch team."

Jenny was undaunted. "Right," she said.

"You do realize this violates all laws of logic as I know them?"

"Laws of what? Is that a wizard thing?" _Right, she's American._ "I don't know much about wizard stuff yet." _Even in your fifth year_? "I'm from a Muggle family." _Wait a minute._

Never in the entire history of Hogwarts had any Muggle-born witch or wizard ever been sorted into Slytherin house. Slytherins prided themselves on the purity of their blood. Come to think of it, Draco had heard rumors that there were no purebloods left among Americans, not even Muggle purebloods, and that they had the audacity to be proud of that. It was supposed to show tolerance or some other such nonsense. _Rubbish._ So if it were true that a mudblood was sorted into Slytherin, that could mean only one thing. And not a good thing.

* * *

Draco skidded around the corner and almost collided with Professor Flitwick.

"Hello, Mr. Malfoy," said Flitwick. "What can I do for you?"

"I need to see Professor Snape," said Draco, glancing from Flitwick to Snape's office door.

"I'm sorry," said Flitwick. "Professor Snape is gone. He is participating in our professor exchange program. His substitute has already beaten you to your Potions lesson. Best hurry along."

"Professor exchange program?" asked Draco. _First I've heard about it. It's turning out to be That Sort of Day._ A sudden suspicion struck him. "Exchange to where?"

"Why, the United States, of course. He'll be teaching at Hogwarts, Massachusetts."

Draco was running down the hall almost before Flitwick had finished_. Hogwarts, Massachusetts. Don't Americans have an ounce of creativity?_

He arrived at Potions and slid into the seat Crabbe and Goyle had reserved for him just in time to see the new professor turn around. After seeing her, he wished he had skipped class entirely. She was a portly, grandmotherly-looking woman, and her robes were a shade of purple unknown to nature. She greeted the class with a smile and a thick Southern U.S. accent and introduced herself as Professor Tilth. Draco couldn't imagine anyone more different than Snape. _Looks aren't everything. Wait until she starts teaching. It could get better._

_

* * *

_

After what seemed like the longest Potions class of his Hogwarts career had ended, Draco realized that Professor Tilth was not only passively different than Snape, she was the antithesis of all things Snape, and thus, by extension, all things Slytherin. Class had consisted of several name games ("I want to get all your names down on the first day") and what Professor Tilth called "sharing exercises." Instead of assigning homework, she conjured a small bag of cookies for each student, according to their personal cookie preference. Certain as he was that something was horribly wrong, Draco considered, it would be nearly impossible to convince anyone else. Unless...

"Aren't either of you the least bit worried that we don't have any homework?" Hermione Granger was asking Ron Weasley and Harry Potter. _How beautifully predictable._

"Yeah, Hermione," said Weasley evenly, taking another bite of a large oatmeal raisin cookie. "It's tearing me up inside."

"Cheer up, Hermione," said Potter, munching on a chocolate chip cookie. "It's not the end of the world."

"True," said Draco. "But it might be the end of Hogwarts."

The three students in front of him jumped simultaneously. Potter gave Draco an evil look, and Draco heard Weasley muttering something to Potter about "people who always sneak around everywhere trying to scare the living daylights out of poor unsuspecting people." But Granger said, "What do you mean?"

Draco stepped into an empty classroom and the others followed. "I know we've had our...differences," he said suavely.

"You can say that again," Weasley snorted.

"I know we've had our differences," said Draco, just to be difficult. "But..." _But what? "I need your help?" Ha! Not bloody likely. "You're the only ones who can help me?" Absolutely not._ "I have some information I thought you might be interested in." _Oh, brilliant. Now I sound like a ruddy spy._

"What sort of information?" asked Potter, who actually sounded intrigued.

"Have you noticed the recent influx of Americans?" asked Draco.

"Now that you mention it, yes," said Granger, who seemed (surprise) to be the only one besides Draco who knew what "influx" meant. "Mostly girls. They keep throwing themselves at Ron and Harry, except for a few of them, who keep telling me how cute Ron and I would be together."

"I've heard that, too," said Weasley. "Ridiculous, right? I mean, do you think it's ridiculous, Hermione? That is, don't you? I mean..."

Draco couldn't tell whose face was redder, Weasley's or Granger's. Potter was rolling his eyes. For once, Draco found himself agreeing with Potter.

"Fascinating as that question is," he said, "the more important point is that we are being invaded."

"Invaded? By the Yanks?" said Weasley. "Ooo, I'm so scared."

"Geopolitically, it wouldn't make sense for U.S. citizens to sabotage the United Kingdom," said Granger. "We've been allies for about two hundred years."

"Two hundred years?" snorted Draco. "Please. Recent history in the wizarding world."

"For Muggle Britain, too," said Granger, whose face was returning to its normal color. "Maybe not for Americans, but then they..." Suddenly, her face went from its normal color to a faintly yellow-green shade. The three boys followed her gaze and saw...Jenny. Who would have guessed Granger spooked this easily?

"Hi, everybody!" said Jenny brightly. "Look, I know we're not supposed to apparate in the halls, Hermione, but I am so late for my appointment with Professor McGonagall. Promise you won't tell?"

They all gazed blankly at her.

"Thanks, you're the best!" she said, and ran off. As she ran, she transformed into a mouse so as to scurry into a hole in the wall, apparently as a shortcut to McGonagall's office.

"Wow," said Weasley, breaking a long pause. "She's only in her fifth year, and she already knows how to apparate. And she's an animagus!"

Everyone stared at him. _He has to be joking._

"What?" said Weasley innocently.

"Ron!" snapped Granger. "Don't you remember anything?"

"Any what?" said Weasley, looking genuinely confused.

Simultaneously, the other three said, "You can't apparate in Hogwarts!"

"And animagi are registered, and they are rare, and didn't you learn anything from our encounter with Sirius?" added Potter.

"All right, all right," said Weasley. "No need to get snippy about it. So...we're saying that Jenny can apparate and become a mouse because of her lack of historical knowledge?"

"We said nothing of the sort," said Granger.

"Then why?"

"Well, because..." Granger trailed off. _Don't have the answer this time, do you? Now's the time for Draco Malfoy to enlighten..._

"It's dark magic," said Potter. "It has to be."

_Blast. Too slow._ "You always think everything strange is dark magic," muttered Draco darkly.

"Do you have any better ideas?" asked Potter.

"Yes," said Draco rashly.

Everyone waited expectantly.

"It has nothing to do with Voldemort," said Draco, stalling for time. To his surprise, the others seemed to think that was his whole idea. And they were stunned.

"What?" asked Granger, gaping. "Dark magic that has nothing to do with Voldemort?"

"Voldemort is behind all the dark magic I've ever heard of!" said Potter, who looked horrified.

"Would you all stop saying 'Voldemort'?" croaked Weasley. "Agh! Now you've got me doing it!"

"Surely you didn't think Lord Voldemort"—he dragged the word out for Weasley's benefit— "was the original Dark Lord?" asked Draco. _Now who's historically ignorant? Haven't they ever heard about cycles of power?_

"We're dealing with the original Dark Lord?" asked Weasley in awe.

_How do these simpletons manage to foil Lord Voldemort every time they meet him_? "Fortunately for us, no," said Draco in his most patient voice. He felt his lip twitching as he suppressed a sneer. "No, we're dealing with American dark magic, which is mostly based on superstition, legend, and what they see in the movies."

"That doesn't sound very threatening," said Potter.

"American wizards are something of a joke," agreed Draco. _Mental note: Stop agreeing with Potter._

"We should tell Dumbledore," said Granger.

"No!" said Draco and Potter at the same time. _Curses._

"Why not?" persisted Granger stubbornly. "I thought we liked and respected Dumbledore." Draco snorted. "Well, we Gryffindors, anyway."

"We do," said Potter.

"So why don't we ever tell him anything until it's too late for him to be of any help to us?"

"Hermione," said Weasley patiently, "Dumbledore has a lot on his plate. He doesn't need to worry about petty things like Americans invading Hogwarts."

"Or people trying to steal valuable artifacts, or Harry hearing strange voices, or us finding Sirius Black..."

"More like Black finding us," said Weasley. "You're one to talk. You're the one who..." And so the conversation turned into another round of Weasley vs. Granger.

"They're always like this," Potter whispered to Draco.

"Not being blind and deaf, I've noticed," he replied.

Potter looked uncomfortable. "See here, Malfoy," he said nervously. "Just because we're sort of helping each other, that doesn't mean anything, you know. I'm not about to start palling around with Slytherins."

"I'm not about to let you," said Draco. "No fear, Potter. My feelings for you will always be the same. Unless it's possible for me to hate you even more than I do now, which, somehow, I doubt."

Potter looked considerably relieved.

"Insufferable know-it-all!" yelled Weasley.

"Red-headed idiot!" shouted Granger.

"This is when I usually break it up by siding with Ron," said Potter. "By the time Hermione leaves her room again, the whole thing will have blown over."

"I have an idea," said Draco in a loud, exaggerated tone of voice. "Why don't we save Hogwarts? Or are you too busy? Shall I tell the impending disaster you're on holiday?"

Granger and Weasley abruptly stopped fighting. Their self-imposed duty as protectors of Hogwarts won out over their self-imposed duty to argue as often as the opportunity presented itself.

"We'll make the Americans leave Hogwarts the same way they got into Hogwarts," said Draco. "Through plot holes. The larger, the better." He pulled a handful of thick dark crayons out of a pocket in his robes and passed them out.

"How do you know all this?" asked a flabbergasted Granger. "Where did you get those crayon things? I thought you needed our help to figure this out."

Draco ignored her. He, Weasley, and Potter left the classroom and began drawing large circles on the floor and walls of the hallway.

"Careful not to step into one of these," warned Draco. "I'm not sure what would happen."

Granger stood in the open doorway and watched the others. "You can't draw plot holes," she said at last. "Plot holes aren't drawn. They are..."

* * *

Draco sat in Potions drawing up intricate, nefarious plans to humiliate Potter. He had arrived in class early, eager to see his favorite professor again. Crabbe and Goyle were sitting on either side of him. Potter, Weasley, and Granger were clustered around their own desk, looking up from time to time to exchange dirty looks with Draco. He had just given them what he felt was a particularly satisfying sneer. Once Professor Snape arrived, his day would be nearly perfect.

Neville Longbottom entered the classroom in a rush, bursting with excitement. "Class is cancelled!" he yelped. "Professor Snape is still missing!"

_Still missing? How can he still be missing? He was never..._A dark crayon fell out of Draco's robes and clattered ominously onto the floor.

They had saved the school from the Americans—but at what cost?


	4. Draco Malfoy and the Search for Snape

Draco Malfoy loved a challenge. Pansy Parkinson was as hard as steel and as cold as ice. Only disdain was kept on the surface; trying to figure out what was beneath that disdain was like trying to smash a brick wall with your fist. It reminded Draco of his favorite person in the entire world: himself.

Which is why it was so disturbing to see Pansy crying like a Gryffindor girl. Few of the other Slytherins were crying, which was unsurprising because most of them had enchanted their tear ducts away. Still, their eyes were looking very swollen and their noses were looking very red. Pansy had never seen the need to be rid of her tear ducts. After all, her disdain was nearly impenetrable.

Draco was doing his best not to look at Pansy for two reasons. First, he knew how humiliating it must be for her to be crying at all, and he didn't care to make it worse. Second, at the moment he was thinking that maybe it wasn't such a good idea for him to have kept his own tear ducts. _Mother always said I should get them taken care of _before_ they started giving me trouble._

Professor Snape was missing. Snape, the one professor who was truly on the side of the Slytherins, the one professor who understood them, the one professor who insulted the Gryffindor students as often as Draco himself did. Snape, his role model and mentor, his friend and father figure, his source for advance information on tests.

The Yankee Invasion had started it. Snape had been forced to participate in a professor exchange program, trading places with a professor from Hogwarts, Massachusetts. Draco had soon realized that the Americans were only present as a result of dark magic. It was Draco who had thought of drawing plot holes to get rid of them. The plan had Americans were gone. Everything was back to normal. Almost. Professor Snape was missing.

The air inside of the Slytherin common room was thick and stale, like the air inside of a tomb that had remained undisturbed for millennia. This last shred of normality was all that stood between Draco In Control and Draco Unhinged. Pansy's sobs echoed thinly and faded away into silence. Draco could hear her rise from her seat in the corner and come toward the chairs around the fire, where he was sitting with Crabbe and Goyle, who both looked more dazed than usual.

"Move," Pansy said quietly to Goyle, who was sitting in the chair opposite Draco.

"Why?" he asked grumpily.

"I said move, oaf!" Pansy snarled.

Goyle looked at Draco, who nodded. He got up and went over to the couch, but Crabbe stretched out quickly. "No room," he said.

Goyle sat on the hearth.

"What are they doing about it?" Pansy asked Draco.

"Dumbledore says he's notified the Ministry of Magic and that he will be looking into it personally," said Draco, as if they were merely continuing a conversation.

"So nothing, then," said Pansy.

"What did you expect?" asked Draco. "The whole school up in arms? The houses united as they put aside their homework to concentrate on finding him? The Gryffindors"—he almost said "crying" but stopped himself just in time—"offering condolences?"

"Weasley said 'Snape's gone? Good riddance,'" said Crabbe. "I almost broke his leg."

"Almost?" said Goyle, disappointed. He didn't ask which Weasley. It didn't matter. They were all the same.

"He moved too fast," grunted Crabbe. "I kicked him, all right, I just didn't hear snapping."

Goyle frowned in sympathy.

Pansy stood abruptly. Goyle rushed to the chair, ready to resume his seat as soon as she left.

Draco and Pansy stared at each other for a moment, then Pansy's eyes narrowed and she nodded. _Good girl. _"Good night," said Pansy. Without waiting for a response, she headed for the stairs to the girls' dormitory.

* * *

A few days later, Draco was in the common room before anyone in the dormitory was awake. He hadn't slept at all. The _narcoveracitas _charm was a tricky one, and although extremely effective, it did take some time. Then there was the matter of sneaking around the halls of the school, but that was simple enough.

As Draco was leaving his Potions exam at the end of third year, Professor Snape had slipped a note into his hand. "Potter has an invisibility cloak," it read. "Beware." _Snape's always been a little cloak-and-dagger._ For Draco, the note had been the key to persuading his parents to buy him an invisibility cloak of his very own, something he had been begging to have ever since he knew they existed. Under ordinary circumstances, his mother would pat him on the head rather condescendingly and say, "When you're older, love," and his father would launch into a forty-minute lecture on fiscal responsibility. One glance at the note, however, and the Malfoys were contacting all of their most dubious contacts in the wizarding world in the effort to find Draco's coveted rarity. They had to sell half the furniture in their house to purchase it, but since the Malfoys never entertained visitors (or even _had_ visitors), no one was likely to find out.

"I like it," Narcissa Malfoy had said bravely, surveying the half-empty house. "It's—spartan."

"Anything to get even with a Potter," Lucius Malfoy had replied. It was really more of a comment than a reply, but then Lucius was not exceptionally gifted when it came to making small talk.

The use of the invisibility cloak was taken for granted for a raid like this. But the use of the _narcoveracitas_ charm was, Draco thought modestly, a stroke of genius. The charm caused its subjects to talk in their sleep. Always a touch-and-go operation, since often what people thought about while sleeping was no more interesting than their waking thoughts, it had the benefit of being noninvasive and virtually untraceable. Draco had counted on one of the nosy Gryffindors knowing some information about Snape's disappearance, and probably plotting a way to make sure he stayed missing. Unfortunately, what seemed to be highest on Potter's mind was the next Quidditch match (Draco had taken notes on Gryffindor's secret plays, so the experiment wasn't a complete loss), and his sidekick Weasley seemed to be obsessing over Granger. Draco nearly had to abort the mission after performing the charm on Longbottom, who woke everyone up when he started squealing, "Not another Howler! I forgot! It was an honest mistake, Grandma! I just forgot! Oooo..." He had been forced to hide in the corner of the room until everyone went back to sleep. After such a close call, he had decided to move on to other rooms. Thomas and Finnegan were likely a complete waste of time, anyway.

Draco looked at the clock on the mantel. Where was she? If she'd lost it...

"Have you been up all night?" said a voice out of the stillness.

"Give it here," he said hungrily.

"I'm touched by your concern for my…..."

Draco leapt up and rushed at the voice. "Now!"

Pansy shimmered into view as she unwrapped herself from the light folds of the invisibility cloak. "Here you are, then," she said sullenly, tossing it to him.

Draco sat down again, holding the cloak tightly and enjoying the feel of the silken fabric beneath his fingers. "What did you find out?" he asked calmly.

"For starters, that the Fat Lady who guards Gryffindor's portrait hole is very used to people mucking about in invisibility cloaks," said Pansy, sinking into a chair opposite Draco and eyeing the cloak a bit jealously.

"I know," said Draco. "When I went through last night, she thought I was one of Potter's friends. Very confused, she was. But by my question I meant did you find out anything _relevant_?"

"You shouldn't stay up all night two whole nights in a row," said Pansy placidly. "It obviously puts you out of sorts."

Draco found his eyes drifting down to Pansy's neck. It was pale, slender, and fragile-looking. His gaze shifted to his hands. They were also pale, slender, and fragile-looking, but—he looked up at Pansy's neck again—yes, definitely large enough to circle around...

"I could take you in a fight and you know it, Draco Malfoy," Pansy said silkily.

_Wouldn't you just like to try it? _"Very well," said Draco. "Let's start this conversation over again. 'Hello, Pansy.' 'Hello, Draco.' 'Pleased to see you.' 'As I am pleased to see you, thanks.' 'What...did...you...find...out?'" He paused. "Now's your part."

Pansy rolled her eyes and sighed. Draco held perfectly still, but inside he was smirking a self-satisfied smirk. _If you don't back down, sooner or later the other person will._

"Other than that Ginny Weasley is dying to have some boy (Potter, no doubt) tell her, 'You're my everything'?" asked Pansy, raising an eyebrow. "I learned absolutely nothing from the Gryffindor girls."

"'You're my everything'? Who says things like that?" scoffed Draco. "If that's the sort of thing _you_ want to hear," he said to Pansy, "you can find yourself a nice Hufflepuff boy. I would never tell you you're 'my everything.' A) You're not, B) I don't believe in telling lies"—Pansy smirked—"that make me look like a fool," Draco finished, "and C) you'd know I was lying, anyway."

"Course I would, pet," simpered Pansy. "No need to get in a snit about it."

"Don't reduce me to asking you to shut up," he said.

"_Asking_?" said Pansy.

He shot her a warning look. _Women. More trouble than...well, more trouble than not._

"Despite the unhelpfulness of the sleeping Gryffindors," she said—and Draco was suddenly alert again— "I managed to gain—what would you call it—ah, yes—_relevant _information from Peeves."

"You cold-blooded tease," said Draco admiringly. "Go on."

"He seems to think that Snape is somewhere in the Forbidden Forest."

Draco almost shouted with triumph. _Wait a minute._ "Why didn't Peeves run off to Filch when he saw you?"

"He didn't see me, you twit," Pansy said. "I was wearing your precious cloak, remember? But he heard me moving. Fortunately, I do a fair impersonation of Heartless Helga."

"Come again?" said Draco.

"She's a ghost. She comes out after everyone is asleep and plays mind games with the ghosts of the masculine persuasion. And sometimes she comes into the girl's dormitories and starts rounds of a game she calls 'Who Would You Rather Date?' Amazing how long her attention span is... We have to pretend to fall asleep so she'll leave..." Pansy yawned.

"Never heard of her," said Draco suspiciously.

"Well, you know," said Pansy, suddenly sounding embarrassed. "Would _you_ admit you had been playing 'Who Would You Rather Date?' with a ghost after curfew?"

"Ah," said Draco. "Point taken." _Wonder how often my name comes up? Concentrate! That is NOT the matter at hand__... _"But why couldn't Peeves tell you weren't really Helga?"

"Poltergeists must be dimwitted," she shrugged.

"That's another thing," he said. "Why are the undead so fond of alliterations?"

"What's wrong with alliterations?" asked a perturbed Pansy Parkinson.

"Nothing," he said. "They are the veritable spice of life." _You're babbling, Draco. And you're mentally referring to yourself in the third person. A sure sign of sleepiness. Agh! Alliterations!_

"I'm going to sleep," said Pansy. "I'd recommend you do so, as well, if you don't want to turn into a slobbering imbecile."

"Speaking of which, I'd better make sure Crabbe and Goyle wake me up in time for our first class."

"Aren't they sleeping now?"

"I'll wake them up, threaten them into coming back for me after breakfast, and then go to sleep."

"You have that much faith in those two?" Pansy asked skeptically.

"I have that much faith in my threats," smirked Draco.

* * *

It was a well-placed faith. Thanks to his intimidated followers, Draco made it to class on time. And thanks to the same followers, only one professor took points from Slytherin due to Draco falling asleep in class. When Draco arrived in the Slytherin common room at the end of the day, his sides were deeply bruised from the prodding of Crabbe and Goyle's elbows. There were dark circles under his eyes and his reaction time was on a ten-second lag. He was in a foul mood.

"Hello, sunshine," Pansy said in a sing-songy voice.

_She just spoke to you. In fact, she's mocking you. NOW's the time to respond. Say something intelligent and witty. Level her ego. Wipe that smirk off her face._

Draco growled.

"Are we on for tonight?"

_What is she babbling about? On for what? What's tonight? What day is it? Process, Draco, process..._

"You know," prompted Pansy, eyes intense.

_Right, Pansy, that makes you so much easier to understand. _

"Tonight?" She surveyed him dubiously. "Do you have any idea what I'm talking about?"

Draco was just about to roar "No" when his brain caught up with his ears, so instead he shouted, "Yes! Stop pestering me!"

"Get some rest," said Pansy sourly. "I'll wake you when the time comes."

"Don't tell me what to do," said Draco instinctively.

Before his brain was ready for his next move, Pansy's face was inches from his. "Get some rest," she hissed at him. "I'm not risking a detention because you want to be a bloody fool. We'd get stuck with Gryffindors, you know we would, and I _won't_ be stuck with Hermione Granger for a whole Saturday, not even for you."

"Ummmm..." _Smooth, Draco._

Pansy straightened quickly. "Sleep well," she said. "See you tonight."

Draco waited for what he considered was an appropriate amount of time before he sidled off to his room.

_You're not afraid of a girl, are you?_

_Of course not. But you weren't much help back there._

_I'm tired._

_So she said._

_What does she know?_

_Exactly._

_So why are you getting into bed?_

_Because when I start having mental conversations with myself, I know I've been awake too long._

_Oh. Sleep well, then._

_Shut up and go away._

_

* * *

_

Something was tickling his face. Something was touching him. Someone was going to get seriously cursed. Draco's eyes snapped open and made contact with Pansy's, dark and derisive. She held her hands up in mock surrender.

"Seemed like a better idea than whispering sweet nothings in your ear," she sneered.

Draco scowled.

"You are really not much of a morning person, are you?" Pansy snickered.

He decided to ignore her. Rising from his bed, he crept stealthily to Crabbe, and then to Goyle, shaking each of them in turn.

"Where are we going?" Goyle mumbled into his pillow.

"Wherever I tell you to," said Draco, willing himself to be alert. _Not going to go spacy in front of Pansy again. Gives her too much of an opening._

Goyle and Crabbe raised their heads and looked blearily at Draco and Pansy. "Okay," they said groggily after a moment. Neither of them questioned Pansy's presence in the boys' dormitory. She was, after all, a Slytherin, which mean that she followed the rules when it suited her and forgot them when it was convenient. _Like Gryffindors. No! We are _not_ like Gryffindors. We are completely different. If Father heard me say something like that..._

The four Slytherins huddled under the invisibility cloak and began moving slowly toward the portrait hole. Not for the last time, Draco was grateful that invisibility cloaks were one-size-fits-all, instead of sized like normal wizard cloaks, which would logically fit around only one person and would not accommodate him and all his friends at once. Not for the last time, he wished the cloaks came with a silencing charm, because Crabbe and Goyle's boots most certainly did not. It was only by a supreme act of willpower that Draco made no exclamation when those same boots kicked him repeatedly as they walked along the corridors. Once they were out on the grounds, halfway between the school building and Hagrid's hut, he allowed himself the luxury of walloping both of them on the head. He considered having them move to the front, so that he would be the one doing the kicking, but he didn't trust them to lead. _There is a down side to being the charismatic one of the group._

"Will you two try shuffling or something?" Pansy asked. "I'm this close to hexing your feet off."

"How close?" Crabbe asked dully. Draco had to restrain Pansy's wand arm.

They quieted down again as they slunk past Hagrid's hut, which was oddly silent. Draco had expected Hagrid to be the snoring type, and it must be past the gamekeeper's bedtime. _Maybe he's been eaten by one of his latest "projects."_ Draco smiled sinisterly.

The Forbidden Forest was upon them. They moved silently into it, or as silently as it is possible for a group of four people huddled together to move. Draco was trying not to hyperventilate. He hadn't been in the Forbidden Forest since his first year at Hogwarts, and that had been a nightmare. _It's different now. I'm with friends, not Potter. My friends, unlike Potter, would not desert me at the first sign of trouble._ He cast a suspicious glance at the other three and did not feel an overwhelming sense of ease and comfort.

Draco paused, and Crabbe and Goyle plowed into him. Ignoring them, Draco looked at Pansy and pointed. There was a light shining in the forest. An unnatural light. They snuck toward it, hiding behind a bush when they heard the voices.

"The sun is in the seventh house," said a voice, "and Jupiter is aligning with Mars."

"But Mercury is in retrograde," said another voice.

"True," said the first voice. "In that case—three cards."

Draco and Pansy exchanged puzzled looks.

"That's one, two, three cards for you, Firenze," said a more familiar voice. It was Hagrid.

"Dobby is still so new at this game," said an even more familiar voice. "Dobby will take—two cards, please, Mr. Hagrid, sir."

"That's my old house-elf," Draco mouthed to Pansy.

"Now, lad, I've told you before," boomed Hagrid. "You can leave off the 'Mr.' and the 'sir' both when ye're talkin' to me."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Hagrid, sir," squeaked Dobby. "Mr. Hagrid is so kind."

Hagrid grunted in a resigned sort of way. "Two cards for you, and dealer takes two as well. Ronan?"

"Orion shows himself at last," said Ronan in a faraway tone. "And the North Star..."

"Ah, come off it, Ronan," said a _very_ familiar voice. "You're just stalling for time and we all know it."

Draco swallowed slowly. It couldn't be.

"Severus, please," said Firenze. "Ronan is merely trying to keep up appearances for the sake of the four young children hiding in the bushes."

"Potter!" Snape snapped.

"No, Malfoy!" Draco called out, standing and throwing back the invisibility cloak. He gestured vaguely at his companions. "And Crabbe, and Goyle, and Parkinson... And I'm _not _a young child! I'm fifteen!"

"I'm 94," said Firenze solemnly.

"All right, then," said Draco. "Okay."

"What are you doing here?" Snape sputtered. "I thought this was called the Forbidden Forest for a _reason_."

"We came to...to rescue you," said Draco. "We heard you were missing."

"Missing? Why would..." Snape glared at Hagrid. "Hagrid," he said coldly. "What time is it?"

Hagrid pulled a large watch out of his jacket pocket. "6:30 Monday evening," he said.

"The same as it was last time I asked you?" asked Snape.

Hagrid looked from Snape to his watch. He shook it carefully and held it to his ear, then he let out a great laugh. "Why, bless me, it's stopped!" he said. "I should have known."

"It's 1:30 a.m. on Thursday," said Draco pointedly.

"Time flies when you're having fun," muttered Snape, tossing his cards angrily on the table.

Hagrid stopped laughing. "I'd better get back to feed the creatures!" He jumped up and ran off toward his hut.

Dobby squeaked. "Dobby must get back to his kitchen duties! Winky will be so worried about Dobby!" He started to beat his head on the table, but managed to restrain himself.

Firenze and Ronan looked at each other. "It appears the game is over," said Firenze. "Everyone claim your winnings and pay your debts."

"Same time next week?" asked Ronan.

"I'll bring the timepiece," said Snape with a dark glance after Hagrid. He caught sight of Hagrid's winnings pile and discreetly pushed it into his bag. "As for you," he said, turning on Draco, "follow me. And you can hand that invisibility cloak over," he added disapprovingly. "Potter's, isn't it?"

"Mine," said Draco, gathering up the cloak and holding it possessively.

"Really?" Snape said, sounding both impressed and disappointed. Draco suspected that Snape would have loved to confiscate Potter's cloak.

Draco nodded. Pansy rolled her eyes. "What is it with you men and invisibility cloaks?"

* * *

As it turned out, Snape got his wish. They met Potter and his gang on the way back to the castle. They were out looking for Hagrid and Dobby, but Weasley tripped over a tree root, ran into Granger, and caused their whole party to fall into a tangled heap just as the Slytherin group arrived on the scene. Snape confiscated Potter's invisibility cloak ("for as long as Dumbledore and McGonagall let me keep it," as he said to Draco later) and deducted 60 points from Gryffindor.

"But Malfoy is out after curfew, too!" protested Weasley.

"Serving detention with me," said Snape. "Would you like to join us?"

Weasley didn't answer.

"Just be grateful I'm feeling lenient," said Snape, and sent the Gryffindors back to their house.

They had found Snape. They had gotten Potter in trouble. Snape had gotten a healing salve for Draco's ankles. Pansy had cursed Crabbe and Goyle's feet to shuffle for the next week. Draco's heart felt ready to burst from the sheer gloriousness of it all.

When he was safely in bed, with the lights off and the sounds of Crabbe and Goyle's snores echoing off the walls, Draco allowed himself one tear.

It was a special occasion.


	5. Draco Malfoy and the Trophy Wife

"Dear Pansy,

"I won't insult you by beating around the bush. It's over. While I appreciate that your family ranks with the Malfoys as far as social status and fortune are concerned, you must admit that there are more attractive women out there. (Even if you don't admit it, it won't change anything.) I've found one. She's a Delacour, a descendant of the Bordeaux Delacours, rich, famous, and stunningly gorgeous. I met her on holiday in France at the start of the summer, but I won't bore you with all the details. Suffice it to say: it's over. Move on. I know it'll be hard, but I'm sure there's a recovery program out there for situations just such as these, and if anyone can find a recovery program, it's a Parkinson.

"'Yours' until recently,"

Draco Malfoy signed his name with a flourish. It hadn't been an easy letter to write. _Why the useless charade? It was easier than the extra-credit homework opportunities Snape gives Slytherin house._ He smiled indulgently at his own handiwork, then bellowed for a house elf.

"Elf!" he bellowed. Four house elves came rushing at his call. He could learn their names and call them individually, so they wouldn't have to drop everything and come running whenever he needed something. But that would take half the fun out of it. If he were going to do that, he might as well just get up and do it himself.

He tossed the letter at the crowd of elves and watched them scramble amongst themselves to gain the honor of completing whatever task he had in mind.

"Take that to the owlery. Use a fast owl." Draco didn't bother with owl names, either.

The elf who had secured possession of the letter rushed off again, and the other three began backing out of the room. Slowly, in case Draco still needed anything. He waved them away, and they dejectedly left to take up their interrupted tasks.

He took quill in hand once more to dash off a note to his new girlfriend.

* * *

All things considered, he wasn't surprised to see the bright red envelope. What did surprise him was that, upon opening it, he was not greeted with a scream.

"Dearest Draco,

"That'll be the day.

"Love,

"Pansy

"P.S. More on the other side."

Casually, he flipped the page over. _Like a gullible Gryffindor_, he thought as the Howler began living up to its name.

"You cretinous prat of a traitor!

"Who exactly do you think you are? Who do you think I am? Not that I wouldn't have expected you to throw me over for a prettier face, but did you expect me to let you? You _know_ I love to hunt, and I won't try to pretend I don't think you're worth it. Tell your little tramp to watch her back...for all the good it'll do her. I'll have you back if it kills you, and I _mean _you.

"Yours whether you like it or not,

"Pansy

"P.S. See you at the party, troglodyte.

"P.P.S. More on the other side."

Cautiously, but with a great deal of curiosity, Draco reversed the page again.

"Hanging on my every word, dumpling? Not making this very hard for me, are you?"

Draco cursed, crumpled the letter into a little ball, and hurled it against the wall just as his mother entered the room. She made a disapproving noise and clapped her hands. "Pansy!" she called. Draco started in dismay. He was not mentally prepared for a confrontation with...

A house elf skittered into the room and looked up at her mistress expectantly.

Narcissa Malfoy stared back impatiently. "Think carefully," she said. "What's in this room that doesn't belong here? Ah-ah...think _very_ carefully," she said as the elf's head swiveled toward Draco. The elf furrowed her brow in deep concentration. Narcissa sighed deeply. "Just pick up that paper and go," she said. She sighed again as the house elf completed her task and scurried out of the room. "New _help _indeed," she sneered disapprovingly. "If your father had only kept his wits about him with our old house elf..."

"Excuse me," said Draco, "but...you named a house elf after my gir—_ex_-girlfriend?"

Narcissa shrugged a slender shoulder to express her total lack of concern for the topic in general. She poured herself a liqueur and strolled out of the dining room. Her re-entry two seconds later was made in the perfectly intentional "I-meant-to-do-that" way to which Draco had long ago become accustomed.

"I beg your pardon, darling," she said. "The house elves are making such a din today." Her voice echoed in the nearly empty room. "Did you say _ex-_girlfriend?"

Draco nodded and shifted in his chair. He wasn't used to looks of disapproval, certainly not from his mother.

"Lucius!" Narcissa said in a very high, very tight voice.

"Yes, my only love?" drifted the lazy response from the sitting room.

"This is no time for sarcasm, Lucius," said Narcissa. "Draco has broken it off with the Parkinson girl."

"Nonsense, kitten," drawled Lucius. "It's always time for..." A sudden curse and a rustling noise came from the sitting room, and Lucius appeared at the door of the kitchen. "Draco!" he snapped. "Please tell me your mother did _not_ just use the words 'broken it off' in the same sentence as the name 'Parkinson.'"

_I always knew they liked her, but this is too much. _"Father. Mother," said Draco, trying to make them see reason, "try to see this reasonably."

"Make me," said Lucius.

Draco considered falling back on his catch-all excuse, but the looks on his parents' faces told him that "I just felt like it" wasn't going to work this time.

"Do you even realize," said Lucius, not waiting for Draco's attempt at self-justification—_always a bad sign_—"how powerful her family is?"

"Yes, Father, I know they're rich," said Draco. _Please. Don't treat me like a child._

"I didn't _say_ rich," said Lucius. He paused to consider. "They are. But that's not what I said. I _said_ 'powerful.'"

"And?" said Draco, having been taught for most of his life that the two were the same.

Lucius collapsed into a chair opposite his son and hid his head in his hands. "Where did we go wrong, Narcissa?" he moaned.

"Now, Lucius," said Narcissa. "Don't let's be over-dramatic." Draco raised an eyebrow sardonically. "We didn't do anything wrong." She smiled at Draco in a pitying way, then sighed deeply. "He must have picked this up from the filth they let into that mudblood-ridden school of his."

_What? How dare she!_

"'Send him to Durmstrang,' I said, but noooo..."

"You know perfectly well that at Durmstrang he never would have..."

Draco stopped sputtering over the insult his mother had hurled at him and said, "I have _not_ picked anything up from any of the Muggle-lovers at Hogwarts!"

"Well, then," replied Narcissa, "I expect you have a reasonable explanation for chucking Parkinson."

Lucius grunted angrily.

_Blast._ Draco Malfoy was not used to offering explanations for anything. He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. He didn't have to do anything he didn't want to do. He would just sit here and stare them down, wearing his best wounded expression. Soon his mother would feel guilty and order the house elves to bring him milk and cookies. Perhaps the new house elf. He grinned (inwardly, of course, so he wouldn't destroy the effect of the wounded expression). It would be rather comforting, after being duped by that Howler, to say, "Pansy! Clear my dishes!" or "Pansy! Wash my laundry!" or "Pansy! Lick the dust off my shoes!" He had a feeling that this was one house elf whose name he would remember for a long, long...

"_What_?" he yelled as his brain caught up with his ears.

"I said," said Lucius, "Go. To. Your. Room."

Draco glowered at him. Going on sixteen years old, and this was the first time he had ever been told to go to his room. His father had a right nerve.

And his wand hand was twitching closer and closer to his pocket.

Draco went to his room.

* * *

He was pleased to be let out of his room for dinner, at least until he realized that his parents had used the intervening hours to come up with more lecture material. Draco, on the other hand, had used the intervening hours to write nasty anonymous letters to his own parents. But since he couldn't figure out how to send the letters without using one of the family owls, he sent the letters to Pansy instead. _That'll show them...something._

Dinner was initially quiet. Lucius refused to look at his son. Instead of asking Draco to pass any of the dishes, he'd call a house elf. Until the house elf who appeared was Pansy, and then he became very sullen and cast _Accio_ at anything he wanted. _Surely this incident with Parkinson can't justify such abominable table manners._

Suddenly, Lucius slammed his silverware on the table. "Draco," he snarled, but Narcissa interrupted.

"Remember, darling, we decided on the anecdotal approach."

"_You _decided."

"Exactly my point," she said. "Shall I begin, in order to give you time to dig the steak knife out of the mahogany?" She didn't wait for a response. "When I went to Hogwarts, I wasn't very much like the Parkinson girl in some ways. I was even more attractive then. Men flocked to me in droves. Why there was one time that Sirius Black invited me to Hogsmeade, and he..."

"Sirius Black asked you out?" said Draco. _A notorious criminal, attracted to my mother? Fitting, somehow._ "I don't remember hearing about this before." He could have sworn that his father muttered "Lucky you."

"I was going with Severus Snape at the time," said Narcissa, "so I had to turn him down. He had the nerve to threaten me...said my boyfriend was a slimy git and that he'd gladly kill him without a second thought." She shrugged. "I doubt anything ever came of it."

"You didn't warn Pro...Snape?"

"Why? He could take care of himself. If he couldn't, he was useless to me. Then the next year there was a boy who..."

"To make an excruciatingly long story short," spoke up Lucius, "I met your mother at a summer party the year after she graduated, saw she was gorgeous, followed her around for a few months, then asked her to marry me."

"Very romantic, Lucius," said Narcissa coldly. "And such detail. Exactly how I remember it happening."

"Yes!" said Draco, pointing enthusiastically at his father. "You see, that's all I want to do. Pansy is interesting, true, but...well, some people think she looks like a pug, and..."

"Some people," said Lucius, "think no end of stupid things."

There was no way to respond to that, so Draco didn't.

"After our engagement," said Lucius, "I noticed various...interesting things. And most of them were happening to my other girlfriends."

"You were cheating on Mother?"

"Technically, I was cheating on the other three when I asked your mother to marry me," said Lucius. "So really..."

Narcissa coughed.

"...it was a horrible thing of me to do, and if I ever catch you doing it I will do horrible things to you."

Narcissa smiled and squeezed his hand warmly.

"You taught me everything I know," he murmured, raising her fingertips to his lips. "The best hand at slow torture I've ever met."

"Mother doesn't strike me as the vicious type," said Draco. "Not that I agree with the insipid Gryffindors who think you're a wife-and-child-abuser, Father, but..."

Lucius and Narcissa laughed so hard they almost cried. Draco hadn't heard them laugh this much since they heard the news about Cedric Diggory.

"_Me_ beat _you_!" Lucius gasped.

"They were all 'accidents,' remember?" Narcissa choked out, nodding at Draco.

Lucius coughed his way back to his normal breathing patterns. "Hm. Yes. As you say. Except for that time I came home from an argument that left my back nearly shredded."

"You told me you got those scratches from a cold-blooded, heartless vampire," said Draco accusingly. He remembered it quite clearly because he had spent hours wondering how something could have any blood at all, regardless of temperature, without a heart. He had chalked it up to his father's shock over the incident, and it was rather disappointing to find out that Lucius had merely been thrown too much off his guard to come up with a good, crisp lie.

Narcissa looked flattered. "You said that?" she purred, running her long nails down Lucius' back affectionately.

"But Mother wasn't even out of the house," Draco protested. "She came running down the stairs almost the moment you got in."

"There's this thing called Apparating," said Lucius exaggeratedly. "All the big grown-up witches and wizards can do it. We'll tell you all about it when you're older."

_And some people think Slytherins hone their wits just to annoy do-gooders like Potter._

"That was nothing," said Lucius, "compared to what she was doing when we were first engaged. Why, once..."

Draco was only half-listening as his father described the various mishaps his other girlfriends had met with. Something was bothering him. He eyed his mother's smooth white arms. "If you're such a powerful witch," he said, cutting Lucius off in the middle of a gruesome story involving a pair of Bludgers, a grindylow, and the Imperio curse, "why don't you bear the Mark?"

Narcissa sniffed haughtily. "As I told your father when he first asked me the same question, I don't believe it shows much intelligence to go about sporting marks of your allegiance to an unpopular leader. If the Dark Lord—may he bring the Scourge again—wants me, he can send a minion for me."

"I'm surprised you're still alive," said Draco, "holding such a ridiculous opinion."

Lucius' eyes flashed. "Son," he said drily, "you're lucky your mother and I love you very much, or you'd have been unforgiveably cursed before you even finished that sentence. As it is...go to your room. And use your time there to write a letter breaking things off with whatever other snippet of female you've taken up with, because you _will_ go back to Parkinson if you know what's good for you. Now go."

This had to be the worst day of his entire life.

* * *

Upon arriving at the Parkinson manor on the evening of the party, Draco looked around for his parents and found them in a corner, talking to the Parkinsons and firmly refusing to look for him. Other heads turned, however, as he and the part-Veela girl entered the room. Draco had defied his parents' wishes by taking his replacement girlfriend, who was refreshingly quiet compared to Pansy. In fact, she'd barely said a word to him since he picked her up an hour ago. His parents were resentful, his date was ornamental, the other guests were admiring. He felt good about himself and life in general. _Who needs a Parkinson when I'm this good all on my own?_

Pansy sashayed over, wearing that hideous shade of pink she adored so much. Draco was about to grant her a condescending smile and a cold greeting, so she completely destroyed his plans when she kissed him.

_Curses! The she-devil! The whole room must be watching! I'm going to... _But for the next fifteen seconds, the only thought he could muster was that if this is what quarreling with Pansy was like, he was never going to agree to making up.

An opinion he was led to reconsider when she bit his tongue. Hard.

In later years, Draco counted it among his proudest moments in life. He didn't swear. He didn't slap her. He didn't bring any more attention to himself. He behaved with the utmost decorum. "Ow," he whispered resentfully as she drew back. She raised her eyebrows and smiled tauntingly.

"Darling!" she gushed. "How positively di_vine_ to see you!"

He hated her.

But he wouldn't mind kissing her again. Once his tongue stopped bleeding.

Pansy grasped his arm like a leech. "Come on," she said. "I'll show you around. Mother has outdone herself with the decorations."

The tug on his other arm reminded him of something he had forgotten...something he was sure was very important. Draco turned impatiently to see...

"Gabrielle!" he said. Thinking quickly, he added, "Pansy! Pansy, Gabrielle. Now that we're all acquainted..."

"Isn't she a little young for you?" Pansy asked.

"Aren't I a little out of your league?" he retorted. Her face tightened. "Besides, I think we make a striking couple. She's part Veela, you know," he continued. "Many have said I myself look as if I possessed Veela blood."

He found Pansy's snort of laughter unexpectedly enticing.

"You?" she scoffed. "You, part Veela? You, with women flocking mindlessly to you?"

"Women?" he said coolly, looking her over. "No, I wouldn't say _women_..." _Heartless blood-sucking vampire bats, on the other hand..._

"Draco?" said Gabrielle meekly. "Zis is getting vairy uncomfortable."

He thought she meant the situation until he realized that he had been gripping her arm more and more tightly each time he struggled not to react to Pansy. The girl's hand was turning blue. He shrugged and relaxed his grip.

"Let's start with the ballroom," said Pansy, intent on giving him the tour. She pulled him away, and he held tightly to Gabrielle, who, true to form, didn't say a word. _We must look like the bloody Hogwarts Express._

Draco watched Pansy out of the corner of his eye as she pointed out painfully obvious features of the rooms, such as the windows, in her most condescending style. She didn't look like a pug, not really. He had a vague idea that she was once less attractive, but that was ridiculous, since really she hadn't changed at all. He eyed Gabrielle, and was struck once more by how completely entrancing she was. Then she saw him looking at her and quickly looked in the other direction. He turned away in disgust and found Pansy watching _him_. She smirked in the "I-told-you-so" way that always made him so furious.

"I'm thirsty," she said. "Get us a glass of punch, won't you, little girl?"

Gabrielle turned very pink and let go of Draco's arm.

"Now, wait a minute!" said Draco. "Listen, Gabrielle, you don't have to do anything she tells you to do."

"She'd better," said Pansy.

"Or what?" Draco asked slowly. "You'll smother her with those hideous frills all over those grotesquely colored robes?"

"It's better than smothering her with the weight of my own self-importance," said Pansy angrily.

"Touched a nerve, have I?" said Draco. "How terribly rude of me."

"You are _all_ nerve, Draco Malfoy."

"And you're slipping, Pansy Parkinson."

"Slipped?" she snapped. "I've bloody well fallen."

"Ah, the famous Parkinson grace," said Draco. "Matched only with the famous Parkinson whining over what they can't have."

And suddenly, the tip of a wand was tickling his neck.

"Or the famous Parkinson patience," Pansy said, her face a mask of sinister calm.

Draco glanced to the side and noticed... "Gabrielle's gone."

"Smart girl."

"She'll be back soon with the punch," he said conversationally.

"Only if she doesn't drink any of it first," said Pansy. "Because if she does, she'll be in serious need of a medi-wizard."

There was a loud crash at the other end of the hall, and Draco turned enough to see people rushing toward the overturned buffet table. He looked back at Pansy, who was smiling triumphantly.

"How did you... That was... What if you'd killed _me_?"

Pansy shrugged and put her wand back in a pocket of her robes. "It's a highly specific potion," she said proudly. "And it doesn't kill anyone," she added, sounding disappointed.

Draco studied her, trying not to show how impressed he was. _Maybe father was right after all. Still..._

"We made such an attractive pair," he said bitterly.

"Witches really do mature faster than wizards, don't they?" said Pansy scornfully. "It's not about looks, ducks, it's about power."

"I know that," said Draco. _I was just hoping the two would go together._

"Do you?"

"Are you saying you have it, then?" said Draco, masterfully redirecting the conversation. "Power?"

"I'm working on it," she said. She flashed her best phony smile at him. "How else could I compete with one of the Bordeaux Delacours?"

_By the way you fight, for starters. Also by not being dead boring._ "Nothing comes to mind."

"My father, on the other hand," she said, glaring at him, "is powerful _now_. And had his heart set on us as a couple. And is looking this way."

Draco took her hand. "You're quite persuasive."

She stroked the back of his hand with her thumb. "You're quite intelligent."

"How very perceptive of you," he said. "One of your finest qualities." He smiled conspiratorally. "Looks like we make a pretty fine pair after all."

It turned out that making up with Pansy was even better than fighting with her.


	6. Draco Malfoy and the Muggle Flat

The door was dirtier than he had expected. _Is this really how these people live? _If it hadn't been for the ginger cat staring at him from the windowsill, he would have doubted his directions. A car drove by, splashing through the puddles on the relatively deserted street. His lip curled in a sneer as he watched it pass, then he looked at the door again. He pulled the slip of parchment out of his pocket. One word, then the address. This address. "Come."

He raised his hand to the door, decided against it, and turned away. As he descended the stairs, he heard the click of the latch and the creaking of the hinges. He heard the sharp gasp. He saw the shadow that stretched before him, framed by the light from within. _Her_ shadow.

"Draco," she said. Always calm. Always understated.

He stood facing the street, waiting for her to come to him. He wasn't about to turn around. "Pansy."

"Won't you come in?"

"Give me one good..." And then she was there, close behind him. He could feel her. More specifically, he felt her fingers twisting his ear and pulling him off-balance.

"Look," she hissed, "I'm sorry for running off without a word. But you wouldn't be here if you didn't want to see me, and I wouldn't have asked you if I didn't want to see you." She took a deep breath, and he could almost sense what was coming. It wasn't going to be pleasant for her. He smirked into the darkness. "I need your help, all right?" she snapped. She pinched his ear once more and released him.

Draco turned, smiling triumphantly. "Pansy!" he began, but then it was his turn to gasp. She was wearing a wine-colored evening gown, and she looked good. Very good.

She flung herself into his arms. Her fingernails dug into his neck; he stood bravely, not wincing. _This witch is about to draw blood... _

"You never contacted me," said Pansy. "Never, in all this time since Hogwarts. I missed you."

Draco was repulsed by such an outright display of affection, but he kept his self-control. "You didn't leave an address."

"If you loved me, you would have tried to find me..."

That was more than enough. Draco peeled Pansy away and held her at arm's distance. "Come off it," he growled. "It's only _been_ four months, after all."

The disdain in his voice seemed to do Pansy good. "Well," she huffed, shrugging him off, "it seemed like forever."

"You've gone whole summers without hearing from me before," Draco pointed out coldly.

"Yes, but then I wasn't living with...with..." Pansy shuddered.

"Which brings me to an interesting question," said Draco.

"Don't," whimpered Pansy. Her cheeks were wet, but then it _was_ raining. Draco shivered. "Won't you come in?" she repeated.

"So concerned," sneered Draco. "I'm beginning to think I have the wrong address after all."

He was pleased to see her face twist into an expression of loathing. "Fine," she snarled. "If you don't have enough sense to come in out of the rain, stay out here. Drown, for all I care."

Draco leaned close to her ear as he swept past her to the still open door. "_There_ you are," he whispered. He felt a sudden wetness around his ankles as Pansy kicked at the nearest puddle. "Don't dirty your dress," he called over his shoulder, and then he was inside.

His nose crinkled in disgust. The place stank of Muggles. And something else...something familiar...

"Weasley!" gasped Draco, as a red-haired figure rose from a chair by the crackling fire.

"Malfoy!" gasped Weasley. Ginny Weasley, to be precise. Without another word, she fled from the room. Draco stood gaping unattractively.

"Take your cloak?" offered Pansy in a voice that dared him to ask her to do it.

"What is she doing here?"

"She's one of my roommates," said Pansy, visibly bracing herself for...

"Your what? Who's the other?" In a flash, he remembered the ginger cat. "Not..."

"Malfoy," said a grating voice.

"Granger!" he exclaimed in surprise before he could stop himself. Weasley was back, too. "What in the name of Vol...Albus Dumbledore are you doing here?"

"Right now?" asked Granger, looking him over. "Losing my appetite."

Touché.

"In general, I live here. As do Ginny and Pansy." She shifted her gaze to Pansy. "You told us it was over," she snapped.

_Great. Not only does she live with two of the most obnoxious Gryffindor girls I ever met, but she _talks _to them, too._

He decided it was time to regain control of the situation. "All right, Granger. I understand why you live here. Too much of the wizarding world turned your head, no doubt. But Weasley grew up with wizards. What's she doing in Muggle London? Shouldn't she be in school?"

Tears began to stream down Weasley's freckled face.

"How could you?" said Granger to Draco, putting her arms around her roommate comfortingly. "Do you have to rub it in?" She shot a warning look at Pansy.

"I'm not following," said Draco.

With a choked sob, Weasley said, "I needed to organize my thoughts after...after Hogwarts burned to the ground."

"After Hogwarts what?"

Pansy elbowed him sharply and whispered, "We told her Hogwarts burned down because Hermione and I couldn't afford the rent on our own."

"Ah!" said Draco aloud. "Yes, Hogwarts! Burning to the ground and all... Shame, that."

There was a screeching of tires outside the door, which was followed by the sound of a loud car horn.

"He's here!" squealed Weasley, suddenly over her distress at the fate of Hogwarts.

Draco braced himself. It must be either Potter or Weasley. Ron Weasley, that is. He didn't think he could take seeing either of them now.

"Honestly," groaned Granger. "How many times have we told him to come to the door like a civilized person?"

"At least he didn't knock the fire hydrant over this time," said Weasley (Ginny) defensively.

Granger turned to Draco. "You're coming too, I suppose."

"Not for all the gold in Gringotts!" answered Draco.

Pansy grabbed his arm for support. "I'm staying, too," she said.

"You are not staying. We've talked about this," said Granger. "You need to get out more."

"Even if it's with him," added Weasley. "Besides, he might be good at it. Stranger things have happened."

"You're too pale," said Granger. "It's unhealthy."

The horn honked again. Granger stormed out the door, yelling, "For the last time, Ron Weasley...!"

"Hermione, wait!" called Weasley, running after her. "Don't hurt him!"

Draco looked to Pansy. Her face was even whiter than usual. "Good at what? What are they on about?" he asked.

"Draco, you have to save me," she moaned. "It's why I called you here tonight."

"Save you from what? Where are they taking you?"

"They're taking me to...to..." Pansy moaned again and covered her face with her hands. "A Completely Gratuitous Social Function!"

Draco gasped. "Not a..."

"Come on, Pansy!" Weasley (Ginny) called. "We're going to be late for the dance!"

"I've told you," said Pansy desperately, "I don't dance!"

"I can vouch for that," said Draco, his feet throbbing at the very thought. "You two run along. Pansy and I have a lot of catching up to do." He cast a withering glance around the flat.

Weasley (Ron) revved the car engine.

"Bye!" called Weasley (Ginny).

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" called Granger.

Pansy snorted. She slammed the door as the car squealed off, then turned to Draco. "Tea?"

Draco looked around him again and shuddered. The place was so...cozy. "No thanks," he said, folding his arms. "I'm rather afraid of touching anything."

Pansy grimaced as she lifted a flower-printed throw pillow off the sofa. "I'm not sure that I blame you," she said, then tossed it at him. "Think fast."

He stepped suavely out of the way. _And to think I once believed my Seeker training was only good for annoying Potter._

"Why are you living in this hole of a flat?" he sneered. "With all these Muggle trinkets and mudblood roommates?"

"Strictly speaking, Weasley's not a mudblood," said Pansy, by way of irritating Draco.

"Close enough," said Draco, not rising to the bait.

Pansy clenched her teeth for a moment before responding. Draco smiled condescendingly. "I went into hiding," she snapped. "You know it was all the rage in Slytherin last year. I'm surprised you didn't do it, too."

"Hiding is for amateurs," scoffed Draco. "And hiding in Muggle London?" he sniffed. "The first place I would have thought to look. It has 'Gryffindor stealth' stamped all over it."

Pansy tossed her hair in that maddening way she had whenever she felt she was losing an argument. Draco loved it.

"It was their idea, wasn't it?" he said. "Own up."

Pansy tapped her foot rapidly on the hardwood floor. Draco waited.

"Fine," she said. "It was Hermione's idea. She ran into our landlady, Tabitha Stevens, in Hogsmeade one weekend near the middle of our last year. Tabby"—from her tone Draco could tell that this was a "behind-the-back" nickname—"is an expert in wandless magic. Granger"—Draco was pleased to hear her drop back to the surname—"was fascinated, of course. Thinks she'll be able to learn a lot from our dear landlady. Tabby's half mudblood herself, so that probably explains why they get along so well." She paused for a particularly expressive sneer. "And Weasley follows Granger around like a lapdog, so it wasn't too hard to convince her. Besides, she thinks the whole idea is bloody romantic. 'Just like living in a Martian the Mad Muggle story,' she always says."

"What kind of a name is 'Martian'?" scoffed Draco.

"Muggles," said Pansy in an explanatory way. They both stood in silence for a moment, pondering the madness of Muggles and Muggle-lovers.

"I would've thought Granger would be an Auror like her little boyfriends," said Draco, by way of changing the subject. "I'm surprised they can exist apart."

Pansy's face wrinkled in disgust. "They really can't. They're here _all _the time. Weasley especially, which gets very noisy; he and Granger are always fighting. They seem to enjoy it." She smirked at him. "It reminds me of Slytherin relationships."

"I have no idea what can you possibly mean," Draco smirked back. "And watch your language. Comparing Gryffindors to Slytherins..."

"Deep down," said Pansy, "everyone's a Slytherin."

_If Father were here..._

"How do you stand them?" he asked casually.

"Barely," she answered. "I've been forced to play 'repentant Slytherin' for the whole summer."

Draco looked around again. He was still holding his cloak, careful not to let it touch the floor. _Who knows what's been in here?_

"Time to drop the charade, Pansy," he said. "Let's go." He moved to the door and stood waiting for Pansy to open it. _Don't. Touch. Anything._

"Go where?" sniffed Pansy. "My parents aren't exactly up to welcoming me home. My former roommates have all gone into hiding so well that none of my owls can even find them...or else they're just ignoring the owls."

"Go with me, you twit," said Draco.

Pansy's eyes narrowed as she studied him. He stared back coolly. "Draco Malfoy," she said slowly, "that almost sounded like a proposal."

"Clean your ears," suggested Draco. "For Merlin's sake, I'm only eighteen. I'm not about to tie myself down to anyone." _Even you. _"But the Malfoy family home has several drafty rooms that have fallen out of use. And mother gets lonely now that most of her old friends have been thrown into Azkaban."

"Why, how thoughtful of you," said Pansy smoothly. "How very kind. And if I say no?"

"You won't," said Draco.

"So sure?"

"I'm Draco Malfoy," he said silkily. "I'm always sure."

Pansy wiggled her nose suddenly.

"What was that?" Draco said, trying to cover his surprise.

"Oh, just something Tabby taught us," said Pansy nonchalantly. "My things are now waiting for us at the Malfoy manor."

Draco smiled smugly and crooked his arm invitingly. "Shall we?"

Pansy refused to take it. "Beat you there," she said, and Disapparated.

Draco blinked at the spot where she had been standing. He cast a final scornful glance around the flat, shuddering as he noticed the Muggle smell again. _And Pansy had been living here for four months...with Gryffindors, no less._

He remembered to set a few curses before he followed her.


	7. Joining

"You're very good," said Draco appreciatively.

"Likewise," returned Pansy.

They sat quietly for some time, listening to the strains of the piano that was magically encoring the duet they had just finished.

"We're very good _together_," said Pansy.

"Mmm," said Draco contemplatively.

The last notes of the piano piece sounded, and Draco stirred restlessly.

"I've been thinking," he began.

"Don't hurt yourself," said Pansy.

Draco continued as if she hadn't spoken. "I'm the last of the Malfoy line. The very last."

"A keen observation."

"Shame to let all of this fade into nothing for lack of an heir," he said, with a sweeping gesture that encompassed the manor, himself, and all things Malfoy.

"Don't let it, then," she said. "I'm not seeing a large problem."

"Well, yes...that is, no...that is, well, it's not the sort of thing I can manage all on my own, you know."

"I am fully cognizant of the biological means of producing an heir," said Pansy coolly.

"Biological...well, yes," said Draco uncomfortably. "There is that. Of course, there are societal obligations to take into consideration, as well."

"Issues of legitimacy," offered Pansy.

"Yes!" said Draco. "Yes, exactly! You know...exactly what I mean. Don't you?"

Pansy sat up a little more stiffly in her chair and smoothed her robes over her lap. "I'm not quite sure that you know."

"Hang it all, Parkinson," Draco exploded, but Pansy cut him off.

"That's my name," she said tightly.

"It doesn't have to be."

"Get to it, _Malfoy_."

"I would like to propose...an alliance."

"An alliance?"

"Yes," said Draco, repeating the phrase with a great air of satisfaction. "An alliance."

"I give you a legitimate heir," said Pansy, "and you give me...what? The pleasure of your company?"

"That and you'll have a legal right to this roof over your head, Parkinson."

Pansy looked up at the ceiling, brow furrowed in mock concentration. "Parkinson," she repeated. "The name's wearing out."

"Trade it in?" said Draco, offering his hand in a businesslike manner.

Pansy's response, on the contrary, was not incredibly businesslike.

* * *

**_Several Months Later_**

The crash of breaking glass was swiftly followed by the clicking of heels hurrying to the door. The door swung open as she entered, knocking by way of formality alone. Draco assumed a look of unconcerned aloofness, as if he had no idea how the vase shattered and really could not care less about it.

"Just the vase?" said Narcissa, raising an eyebrow as she flicked her wand at the pieces on the floor. "On our wedding day, your father blew an entire wall out." The shards of the abused vase flew together again, and she pocketed her wand.

"I'm not my father," said Draco morosely. "Thank Merlin."

"Your fiancée," continued Narcissa coldly, "has remained remarkably restrained—magically. But she's been babbling like a fool for the past hour now."

Draco suppressed a smirk. "Come now, Mother," he said. "Isn't it bad luck to talk about the bride at this stage?"

Narcissa sniffed impatiently, but did not press the issue. "Ten minutes," she said. Draco nodded and began twirling his wand absent-mindedly. "So if you're thinking of running out, now would be the time," she added in her best "don't even think about it" tone of voice.

Draco turned to deliver a snappy retort, but she was already gone.

_Good thing, since my snappiest retort was__...__nothing. This had better not be a harbinger of marriage's effect on the wit._

He stared at the wall, imagining it flying to pieces at the flick of his wand. _But that's been done, according to Mother._ He considered repeating the gesture as a sort of homage to his father. No one knew where Lucius Malfoy was at present, although their best guesses usually involved the word "Azkaban." Draco himself felt this to be true. His father had been caught. After all he had ever taught Draco, by word or by deed, he had let himself be caught. The one unforgivable offense. It was Lucius Malfoy's fault that he wasn't there to witness his son's wedding day. It was his carelessness that left Draco to watch out for his mother, who spent most days now wandering about the manor, a shadow of her former self. He was not going to think about his father, today of all days. He had responsibilities to get on with, and maudlin sentimentality wasn't going to help anyone. His father was gone. _So what?_

Upon further consideration, he decided to leave the wall intact.

* * *

Although the ballroom of Malfoy manor was dishearteningly empty, Draco could see that his mother and his fiancée had done their best to keep it from reflecting the echoing loneliness many Death Eater houses had fallen prey to as the war progressed. The small ring of chairs around the platform in the center of the room were surrounded by banners sporting the Malfoy, Parkinson, and Slytherin house crests. Three empty chairs—for Draco's father and for Pansy's parents—shone with non-burning silver flames. Listening to the sparse crowd muttering to themselves in the moments before he and Pansy entered, Draco realized that someone had cast an echo-suppressing charm. A nice touch.

Draco ducked back behind the door and waited for the signal. He was disappointed to discover that his heart was racing. _I've faced down Aurors, Gryffindors, Potter__...__surely I have what it takes to survive the Joining Spell._

He and Pansy had made the decision to perform the Joining Spell shortly after she had agreed that the Malfoy family needed male heirs, and that she would be willing to be the woman who provided them. The spell had fallen out of use over the past century, but Draco was not about to lower himself by getting married in the traditional Muggle style that had come into vogue among many wizarding families. Besides, a vow was as easily broken as it was made. Not so the Joining Spell, one of the few irreversible spells in existence. Infidelity was not much of a worry when it was involved, unless the guilty party had a mad desire to see if betraying one's spouse _really_ caused your heart to catch fire and burn you to ashes.

Draco was not above the use of intimidation to secure his property. He was not about to risk the humiliation of having Pansy cheat on him. Not that he foresaw that ever being a difficulty...but still...women had been led astray before... What made him nervous was that she would be performing the same spell on him.

_Not that this wasn't my idea in the first place,_ he thought glumly.

Narcissa was standing, pronouncing an official welcome to all the guests there to witness the forever joining of the most powerful young witch and wizard it had been her privilege to know.

Forever was starting to sound like a much longer time than it had a few months ago. Weighing the potential harm that could come to him if he ran now against the definite harm that would come to him if he tried to run even an hour from now, Draco began sidling away from the door.

And then Pansy entered from the other side of the ballroom, and he forgot to keep moving. He forgot to breathe. He had never seen her this fierce, this intense. She was obviously struggling to hold herself back, struggling to behave like a proper aristocratic Slytherin.

Draco forgot that there was a possibility that, somewhere in the world, another woman existed. He stepped forward to the base of the platform, staring over it at Pansy.

"Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy," intoned his mother impressively, "are you fully aware of the consequences and responsibilities of the undertaking before you?"

_Of course I'm not. Why would I be doing this in my right mind?_ "I am."

"Pansy Parkinson, daughter of Edward and Lucretia Parkinson," Narcissa continued, with a nod of appreciation at Draco, "are you fully aware of the consequences and responsibilities of the undertaking before you?"

Pansy did not answer. She was staring at Draco as if she had forgotten her own name. Draco quirked an eyebrow impatiently.

"Sorry," said Pansy, shaking her head abruptly. "I am." She risked an apprehensive glance at Narcissa and whispered, "That's the part we're at, right?"

Draco inclined his head toward her in affirmation. Narcissa was already turning to the crowd.

"Let the ceremony begin!" She strode off to her seat.

Draco and Pansy stepped onto the platform and took out their wands. Draco placed the tip of his wand at the base of Pansy's left ring finger, and she did the same to his. Slowly, they began tracing a circle around each other's ring fingers with their wands. Draco fought back an initial urge to laugh at the ticklish sensation this caused. _It is entirely inappropriate to laugh at a wedding. Weddings are very important and solemn events._

He cleared his throat and began the ancient ceremonial incantation. "Pansy Parkinson, I lay claim to thee, all of thee, body and soul. Thou art mine, mine utterly and mine alone, until such time as death may part us. I hereby bind you to myself, and"—_here it comes_—"bind myself to thee, to thee utterly and to thee alone until such time as death may part us." With a great effort, he kept his wand hand from beginning to shake uncontrollably. He couldn't stop thinking about a sudden and painful death by not-so-spontaneous combustion. _Why must the incantation harp on death? _He reminded himself to breathe evenly, drawing on the breath exercises Narcissa had taught him in preparation for this event. _A Malfoy does not hyperventilate at a wedding. Or ever. A Malfoy does not hyperventilate__...__. _

Pansy began her part of the incantation, her voice clear and strong (although it seemed to be pitched a fraction higher than usual). "Draco Malfoy, I lend credence to thy claim, binding myself to thee utterly and to thee alone until such time as death may part us. And I in turn lay claim to thee, all of thee, body and soul. Thou art mine, mine utterly and mine alone, until such time as death may part us." She paused, and the look that she gave him was both playful and intensely serious. "And even he will have a bit of a job laid out for him," she murmured.

Draco managed to turn a laugh into a sharp exhalation of breath. "Ready?" he asked. She nodded. Without breaking eye contact, each of them stopped the motion of their wands at the knuckle and pronounced the final word of the spell.

"_Conjugus_!"

A white-hot pain seared Draco's finger. Pansy gasped and grabbed his hands tightly in hers. Together, they managed to keep from sinking to their knees. Draco looked down at their hands, entwined together and white as snow from the ferocity of their grasp, and he saw glowing bands encircling their left ring fingers—evidence that the spell had taken hold.

_No wonder hardly anyone does it anymore. _Cruciatus_ would be a brief tickling sensation compared to this._

Which was all he had time to think before the pain subsided. Pansy took a deep breath, then tossed her head defiantly. Her face was radiant—triumphant. Draco released her hands and flexed all the fingers on his left hand.

_Bloody well _not_ doing that again__...__._

But Pansy had never looked so beautiful.

The rest of the ceremony was a blur—Narcissa presenting them with rings to cover the brilliance of the glowing band; Draco's concern that the spell would leave a permanent scar, a soon-to-be-dismissed fear that brought with it unpleasant thoughts of Potter; Pansy gripping his right hand so tightly she left an imprint of the serpents on her ring as Narcissa pronounced the words that brought the ceremony to a close: "Let no one attempt to disrupt this union—and may all who are foolish enough to risk it die in the attempt" (at which Pansy pressed his hand even harder).

Suddenly, he turned and found himself alone with Pansy. All of the guests, including his mother, had moved off to the main dining room to await the wedding feast.

"Hello," she said as she caught his eye.

"Ah...hello," he said. She seemed cool and distant. _Hardly like the same person as the one who made me actually go through with that excruciatingly painful spell. The one with the ferocity in her eyes__...__._

"I think it all came off very well, don't you?"

Draco blinked. He couldn't for the life of him remember what had come off, but he was fairly certain that what she was thinking about was entirely different than what he was thinking about.

"Don't you think the wedding was a success?" Pansy prompted.

"Ah! The wedding! Yes. Came off splendidly. If the raging pain in my left ring finger was anything to judge by, I'd say the whole thing was quite successful." He nodded. "Quite. Quite." _Marvelous. She's not the one babbling anymore, is she?_

Pansy smirked at him. "Let's not keep our guests waiting."

"Whyever not?" said Draco. "They're adults. I should think they are perfectly capable of amusing themselves." He smirked back at her. "While _we_ are..."

Pansy held out her arm. "Are you coming to dinner, or not?"

"I'd rather n..."

"_I'm_ going to dinner."

Draco crooked his arm reluctantly, and Pansy took it. They made their way to the dining room, where they found that the house elves had outdone themselves in the preparation of expensive delicacies (many of them illegal). Draco vowed not to order a feast this lavish for any of his heirs. He could hardly taste a thing. He could hardly believe what he had just done.

_What _have_ I just done? I've just performed the Joining Spell with a woman who is not even looking at me._

Pansy was certainly not behaving as he had expected. She was chatting with all of the guests, almost pretending he wasn't there at all. It reminded him of something...someone. With a jolt, he remembered his parents' wedding album. _Merlin, I've gone and married my mother. _But just then, Pansy turned away from the wizard she had been conversing with, and Draco saw her check the timepiece on the wall behind him with barely concealed impatience. She dropped her gaze to Draco and crossed her eyes at him. He flicked his tongue at her (quickly, in the hopes that the guests wouldn't notice). Underneath the tablecloth, Pansy's hand found his. They continued to speak to their guests and not to each other, but Draco didn't relinquish his bride's hand until they had to stand to say farewell to the assembled witches and wizards.

"Well," said Pansy matter-of-factly as the last guest Disapparated and Narcissa had quietly slipped off to her own room.

"Well," said Draco noncommittally.

Pansy glanced from one end of the dining hall to the other. "It seems we are alone."

Draco looked around as if mildly surprised. "It would seem so."

"It's been a long day," said Pansy. "The weather was fine, wasn't it?"

"Magnificent weather," said Draco. "Very dry." As they had spent the entire day indoors, he didn't see how this had any bearing on the conversation. _But then, I don't see how this could be considered a conversation. If this keeps on for much longer, I might have to reconsider the idea that she was only distant because she was afraid that otherwise she wouldn't be able to keep her hands off of me. A legitimate concern, true; I would hardly have wanted someone draped over me like a fur at my wedding feast—even if that someone _were_ my wife. I suppose she knows what she's about. After all, we're purebloods. We don't have to be vulgar. Physical expressions of affection are not necessary in a marriage, after all. Marriages are not about__...__._

Pansy's voice interrupted his thoughts. "I think we have an heir to produce?"

"Please," said Draco automatically. "That is...yes. Yes, we do."

"Best get down to it, then," said Pansy.

_Forever._

_That's an awfully long time._

Draco smiled.


	8. The Unthinkable

"When did this happen?" Draco Malfoy asked woodenly.

"A few days ago," said Blaise Zabini. "We only just found out."

No response.

"We have to consider the possibility that she will turn on us," Blaise continued. "We're preparing the appropriate...precautions."

Draco snarled at the image of Blaise's head in his fireplace. "She's as likely to switch sides as Potter, and you know it."

"It's customary," Blaise replied. "If you have a problem with it, you can always take it up with Lord Voldemort. See if he'll bend the rules for you, being a Malfoy and all. He was impressed that your father didn't name names before he received the Kiss." Blaise smiled tauntingly.

"_Impressed." That's worth its weight in hippogriff dung._

"Let me know if you hear anything else," said Draco, and Blaise's head disappeared abruptly.

Draco sat staring into the fire until it burnt down to the embers, fingering the silver ring on his left hand—two serpents intertwined.

It was to have been a routine mission. A bit of spy work, a bit of sabotage. Nothing she hadn't done a hundred times before. She wasn't even due back for another week. He hadn't even had a chance to get worried yet.

_Nonsense. Slytherins don't get worried._

He went to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich, terrifying the house elves in the process. Only their fear of being punished kept them from asking if they should send for a doctor. The sandwich tasted like...nothing. He could hardly feel the weight of it in his hands. Everything was tasteless, colorless, without sound, without scent. Empty.

_Ridiculous. She's just a woman. You're behaving as if she were something important, like prestige or wealth or power. She served Voldemort, as you do. She knew the risks._

_From both sides._

He had made his way to their room without being aware of it. Suddenly the emptiness disappeared—_she_ was crowding in on him from every angle. The scent of her perfume hanging in the air; the pastels of the robes hanging in the wardrobe beside his own. He could hear her voice calling him to bed; he could almost taste her.

But she was gone. Captured. Sent to Azkaban. Awaiting the fate of his father.

Draco realized he was reciting numbers aloud, and that those numbers corresponded to certain Malfoy family assets. He laughed mirthlessly. Those do-gooders were on a "noble quest." They weren't in it for the money. Anyone who might have been bribed had already switched to Voldemort's side.

He was one of the richest wizards alive. _For all the good it does me now._ One of the richest wizards alive, but he had nothing that the other side would want. Nothing that would save her.

Unless...

_Madness. The only reason to do that..._

He studied himself in the mirror. Mirrors always reminded him of his first year at Hogwarts, of the stories of the Mirror of Erised, which showed you your heart's desire. Whenever he looked into an ordinary mirror, seeing only his own reflection, he liked to pretend it was the Mirror of Erised, telling him that he had everything and was everything a wizard could ever hope for.

Today, his reflection looked lonely. And, with an unwelcome rush of clarity, he knew exactly why. He could explain it in one word, one word that he had loathed as a sign of weakness all his life. One little word.

_When did _this_ happen?_

_

* * *

_

Draco allowed himself to imagine storming into the Ministry of Magic, finding the office of the Department of Azkaban Appeals, cursing the life out of the department head's friends and family in front of his eyes, forcing the official to release, not only his wife, but everyone who had been sentenced to Azkaban. He fantasized about having an army of Dementors at his disposal, to set upon anyone foolish enough to cross him.

They were only imaginings, only fantasies. He knew that, in reality, going to the Ministry would mean turning himself into their hands.

Not that that wasn't the plan. But he wanted to make a trade, not a donation. How many Ministry officials would listen to his story?

"_Dear sirs, I am here to give myself up, but only on one condition." "Oh, yes, certainly, Mr. Malfoy. How perfectly logical." Not bloody likely._

He knew there was only one person with the needed influence who might also listen to a plea for help. _Plea for help. Me. To him. _He grimaced. He couldn't go through with it. He would rather die.

His eye caught the painting over the fireplace. His mother had commissioned the portrait as a wedding present. There was Draco himself, looking aristocratic and bored. And there was Pansy, trying to look aristocratic and bored, too. And failing miserably.

He _would_ rather die.

He'd rather she live.

Draco went to the fireplace. Thanks to their network of spies, he knew his exact destination. Thanks to his extensive study of enemy protocol—information gained thanks to Pansy's efforts—he knew how to get past the wards.

And so it happened that one bright April afternoon, Harry Potter found himself standing in his supposedly secret, well-protected flat, face to face with his old arch-nemesis. Well, face-to-wand, at any rate.

"M-Malfoy!" sputtered Potter. "H-how did you..."

_Typical Gryffindor. Think first, ask questions anyway._

"None of your business," said Draco. "I'm here to make a deal with you."

Potter stared back at him defiantly. He seemed to have regained his poise. "Something I'm not likely to do with a wand pointed at me by one of the Dark Lord's leading henchmen."

Draco spat on the ground. "The Dark Lord. Interesting you should bring him up. He's the reason I'm here now. No!" he added quickly as Potter reached for his wand. "It's not that...I mean...he didn't _send_ me here, he's the _reason_ I'm here, if you can grasp the subtle difference."

For the first time, Draco was glad Gryffindors were so consumed with curiosity. Were their positions reversed, Draco would have found a way to rid his opponent of his wand (and probably his life) by this point. Instead, Potter was nodding slowly in dawning comprehension.

"Parkinson," he said.

"That's _Malfoy_, thank you very much," said Draco. "And I want her back."

"Put the wand away," said Potter, "and we can talk."

Grudgingly, Draco put his wand back into his robes. But he kept his wand hand ready, just in case Potter got clever.

"What makes you think I'd do anything to help you?" said Potter coldly. "You and Park...your wife have done more damage to our people and our cause than any other Death Eaters have."

"Do you remember about seven months ago," asked Draco, "when some followers of the Dark Lord captured Neville Longbottom? They'd barely made off with him when a swarm of Aurors came at them from all sides. It was a disaster. Only one of them made it back to tell the tale...the rest are rotting in Azkaban as we speak." The room seemed to spin, and Draco forced himself to continue. "This morning, I found out about Pansy. When _did_ your forces capture her, anyway?"

"About a week ago," said Potter.

Draco laughed—a harsh, shallow laugh. "A week. Pansy is, as you yourself have acknowledged, one of the best and most talented followers the Dark Lord had. And I just found out this morning." He kicked an ottoman so hard it flipped over. "Your people rush in to save blundering Neville sodding Longbottom, and the most prized of all the Death Eaters is sitting in Azkaban, waiting to see if the Dementor's Kiss will come before the killing curses from her own side."

Draco struggled to collect his thoughts. _If I lose it in front of Potter, I will find a way to use Avada Kedavra on myself._

"What exactly did you hope I could do?" asked Potter. "We can't just let her rejoin you, let the two of you go running back to Voldemort."

"Am I not making this clear enough for you?" snapped Draco. "I'm done. Done with Voldemort, done with Death Eaters. From here on out, Draco Malfoy serves no one but Draco Malfoy."

"And Pansy."

Draco rolled his eyes. "She's my wife, isn't she? That makes her my property, doesn't it? A man has a right to look after his property."

"Yes," said Potter, and Draco cringed inwardly at his tone, "a man has a right to look after what belongs to him."

"I've invested too much in that woman to let her die in Azkaban," said Draco sharply. "I'm proposing a trade. You let her out, and you can have me instead."

Despite the situation, Draco found it rather amusing to see Potter's jaw drop.

"They'll like that," said Draco. "I know they will. It _will_ work," he added fiercely.

"Why did you come to me?" asked Potter. "I'm not the warden of Azkaban."

"No," said Draco, "but you know the right people. Besides, you're the only one who would have heard me out. You're so bloody decent all the time...it's what I've always detested about you."

Potter chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully. One tense moment followed another as he pondered what to do. Finally, just as Draco was preparing to take out his wand and cut his losses, Potter spoke up.

"I'll see what I can do," he said. "Meet me back here in two days. I won't change the wards before then, but I won't be here alone, either. Any tricks and all deals are cancelled."

Draco nodded and backed into the fireplace to return to Malfoy Manor. Potter didn't move, didn't try to get his wand. He just stared steadily at Draco, and Draco was horrified by what he saw on Potter's face.

_He trusts me. A good thing I'll be receiving the Kiss soon, or else I'm not sure how I could live with myself..._

_

* * *

_

The days that followed were feverishly busy ones for Draco. He lied his way out of several Death Eater meetings and assignments. He spent hours in the Malfoy library, emerging at last only to head straight for the potions laboratory he had constructed in one of the dungeons. He set up a series of complicated, interwoven spells, and armed himself with the trigger spell. He plotted a variety of agonizing deaths for Blaise Zabini, who had had the gall to enjoy throwing Pansy's imprisonment in his face. He took his wedding portrait off the wall and placed it in a crate with certain other possessions. He tried not to think about Azkaban.

Almost before he was ready, he found himself standing in his fireplace, casting a final look around and hoping that this whole thing wasn't an elaborate trap, a way to get both Malfoys behind bars. An Azkaban reunion was not part of his plan. He took a handful of floo powder and cast it into the grate with all his might, shouting "Potter residence" and then muttering the complex anti-warding spells that would get him there in one piece.

He materialized again in Potter's sitting room fireplace and found the place packed with witches and wizards, many clothed in Auror robes. Weasley, Granger, Longbottom, Creevey, McGonagall... None of them looked pleased to see him.

_They're going to kill me. Slowly, by the looks of them._

He reached for his wand, but it was too late. Weasley was already yelling, "_Accio_ wand!" and Draco's wand was flying from his pocket and soaring through the air. Weasley caught it with a smirk that would have done a Slytherin proud.

"Well, well, if it isn't Malfoy," he said. "Can't say I'm happy to see you..."

"Oh, do shut up," said Granger, jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow, and Weasley contented himself with glaring at Draco as if he wished looks really could kill.

As Draco surveyed the room, he noticed that one—or rather, two very important people were missing. There was no sign of Potter. And no sign of Pansy.

His mouth twisted in disdain. It _was _a trap. Potter had lied to him. The Dark Lord was right all along: the search for power was the only constant of the universe.

Three days ago, that knowledge would have lifted his spirits.

It may as well have been three centuries.

Suddenly, a murmur swept through the room, and people began to make a path. Potter had entered. And he wasn't alone. Draco stared hungrily, not sure whether or not to believe what he saw.

The strain of the past week was clearly visible, but Pansy Malfoy was the picture of defiance, her head held high and her face twisted in scorn and hatred. She looked every Auror in the eye, a look that made spoken threats unnecessary. It seemed ages before she turned that look on Draco.

And then her defiance and her scorn and her hatred and her self-possession seemed to shatter into a billion pieces. She seemed to melt into herself, shoulders sagging, head drooping forward as she held his gaze.

"No," she whispered. "Not you, too."

Draco walked to meet her, ignoring everyone else in the room. He tilted her chin up and bent his forehead to hers.

"No," he said. "Not me too."

Her brow furrowed in confusion, but only for an instant. Then she threw her arms around him, pinning his own arms to his sides in a hard embrace.

"You can't," she said, and he wasn't sure if she was talking to him or to the onlookers surrounding them. Her voice rose to a shriek. "You can't!"

"Pansy," he said, "this is no time for..."

"Take me back," she said, turning her head toward Potter. "You have to take me back. Or bring the Dementors here...I'm ready for them."

"Pansy," Draco repeated.

"I thought you forces of Right and Justice didn't do torture," sneered Pansy. "I thought you were above that."

"Pansy!" said Draco. "I'm here of my own choosing. They're not going to let you go back to the Dark Lord, but they're going to look after you, protect you from him."

"There was no need to be a bloody hero!"

"Yes, there was," said Draco impatiently, "and if you don't quiet down immediately I'm sure I can get them to make you."

She released him and stood alone, raising herself to her full height. Once more, her face assumed its defiant aspect.

"Thank you for your concern," she said, "but if you're going to be a martyr I'm not letting you do it alone. If you're going to Azkaban, so am I." The corner of her mouth turned up slightly. "I can show you around."

"Excuse me," Potter said, "but who said anyone was going to Azkaban?"

Despite the situation, Draco found time to be annoyed at himself for letting his jaw drop.

"If you want to," Potter continued, "I'm sure it could be arranged. Personally, I'm not too fond of Dementors."

"What's our other option?" Draco said sourly. "Being executed right here and now? That could leave a nasty mark on your carpet if you don't do it properly."

"There's always switching sides," said Potter.

Draco laughed derisively. "In case you didn't notice, Potter, I can't stand you people. Any of you. And I distinctly recall mentioning that I was never going to work for anyone but myself again."

"You'd be largely free to use your own methods," said Potter. "Pansy certainly couldn't be a spy...they'd be too suspicious about a Death Eater escaping from Azkaban. Something behind the scenes, perhaps? As I see it, you have a limited number of options: both of you go to Azkaban, Draco goes to Azkaban and Pansy stays out of Azkaban but in our custody, or both of you work together...helping our side this time."

Draco looked at Pansy. Pansy looked at Draco.

"Of course," said Potter, "if you feel ready to sacrifice yourselves for Voldemort..."

The Malfoys looked at Potter. "Get out the sparkly club badges," said Draco. "We're in."

_What would Snape say to this?_

_

* * *

_

Draco and Pansy stayed at Potter's flat long into the night, discussing potential strategies and arranging plans for the future. Most of the other witches and wizards left. Weasley and Granger stayed on. _Acting as Potter's bodyguards, as usual._ All three former Gryffindors were a bit unnerved when Draco took out his wand (none the worse for having been in Weasley's sweaty hands) and uttered a quick spell. They were surprised when a fairly large crate containing an assortment of Malfoy belongings appeared in the middle of Potter's sitting room. They were astonished when he explained what was now happening at Malfoy Manor as a result of the carefully laid spells that he had just set off. He suspected that they would actually be impressed when their intelligence verified that Malfoy Manor had been destroyed, presumably by Aurors, and that the body of Draco Malfoy and several house elves had been found in the rubble. _Though come to think of it, Granger will probably be put out about the house elves._ Draco smiled at the thought.

As they headed out into the blackness of the pre-dawn, Pansy asked Draco the question he had been dreading.

"Why?"

He knew she wouldn't be put off this time. He had seen that look in her eye before.

"If you must know," he said, "it's because I...that is, what I mean to say is that I... Curses, are you really going to make me say it?" He paused and took a deep breath. "Pansy, I..."

She placed her forefinger across his lips. "Sshh," she whispered. "I know." She moved her hand to his cheek. "Me, too."

* * *

The next morning, the Dark Lord received an owl bearing the head of Blaise Zabini. Attached was a brief note:

"Dearest Lord Voldemort,

"Thought this might look good on your nightstand. If you don't like it, there are several others to choose from.

"Fondest Regards,

"Us"


	9. Malfoy's Heir

_There is nothing,_ thought Draco Malfoy, _like relaxing with one's wife at the end of a hard day of assassinations and torture._ He closed his eyes, enjoying the comfortable feel of the pillow beneath his head and the woman in his arms. He was drifting off to sleep when she stirred slightly and spoke.

"I have a surprise for you," Pansy purred into his ear.

"You're pregnant," he guessed. The next second he was rubbing his neck, which had been slightly strained when Pansy jerked her arm out from underneath it in order to sit up.

"That's what you always guess," said Pansy angrily. "Every time I tell you I have a surprise for you, every time I start a sentence with 'do you know,' every time I even quirk my eyebrows..."

"That was just that one time," Draco replied defensively.

"...that's what you always say," Pansy continued. "Have you no use for me if I don't prove to be as fertile as you always imagined a wife should be, or is it only that you have no imagination at all?"

Draco sat up with a sigh. "Of course it's not."

"Not which?"

After a quick mental review of his two options, Draco was able to respond with confidence. "Not either. I have mountains of imagination, and you are quite useful. In fact, even with my mountains of imagination, I can't imagine life without you. Who would pick up my socks?"

Pansy shot him a particularly nasty look and swung her legs over the side of the bed. "So buy another house elf," she sneered.

Draco rolled over onto his back and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Droplet of my blood, it is _far_ too late for this. If I'm going to keep you from being a widow, I need a good night's sleep before we dispense our own particular brand of vigilante...oh, for lack of a better word, let's call it justice."

"Vengeance."

"Ah, yes. That _is_ a better word. But then, we'll have to drop the vigilante. I'm not sure if such a thing as vigilante vengeance exists, and even if it does, it sounds far too ridiculous to strike terror into anyone's heart."

"Stop talking nonsense," said Pansy.

"Come back to bed," said Draco. _I had no idea what an adverse effect marriage can have on one's sleep cycle. Lucky she doesn't pull this often__...__I'd probably have gray hairs__..._

Pansy turned her head away haughtily.

"Fine," Draco said, yawning. "I give up. I can't guess. I'm a horrible guesser. What, pray tell, is the surprise you have for me? I know you're not pregnant, since that was my first guess, and we know how horrible I am at..."

"Oh, of course I'm pregnant," Pansy snapped.

Draco was sitting up before he realized he had moved. He was suddenly very much awake.

"And I _knew_ you'd say that," sniffed Pansy, "you _always_ say it, but it would have been nice if it were a surprise."

"Trust me," said Draco. "It's a surprise. Look at my face," he said, turning her around by her shoulders. "See? Utterly shocked."

Pansy burst into hysterical giggles at the sight of his wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression. "You...look...like Goyle taking a...practical exam!"

Draco winced. "I'd say we're about even now," he said.

Pansy suddenly put her arms around him and squeezed him in the special post-argument way she had that always reminded him of an anaconda. As usual, he began stroking her hair, acting as if his ribs didn't feel on the verge of snapping. As usual, after a few minutes of hair-stroking Pansy relaxed her death grip.

"Parents," she said, and Draco ignored the quiver in her voice.

"When I think about it," said Draco, "it's the most shocking news I could ever receive."

Pansy squeezed him again, and he felt her breathing becoming fast and shallow.

"Oh, go ahead," he muttered against her hair. "I won't tell anyone just this once."

And he squeezed back as Pansy suddenly burst into tears.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, Draco longed for the good old Death Eater days. He missed the Lestranges. He missed Crabbe and Goyle. He missed his father. He even missed the Death Eaters who had come out of Gryffindor. _At least they came out._ He wanted someone to brag to, but being hunted by your old friends and despised by your old enemies didn't make bragging as enjoyable as it once would have been.

He was sitting behind a hedge, wet and cold and in a foul mood, waiting for someone he didn't like to pass by, when someone he didn't like tapped him on the shoulder.

He whirled around, but his Stunning Spell was skillfully blocked. He glared at the intruder.

"Wotcher, Malfoy!" she said cheerfully.

"Nymphadora," he said.

Nymphadora Tonks grimaced, but she was used to being the only member of the Order of the Phoenix whom Draco addressed by given name. Gone were the days of "Bloody...it's Tonks, Malfoy, _Tonks_!" Draco suppressed a nostalgic sigh. He had never anticipated that things would go this far.

"How did you find me?" he asked.

"The Order knows all," said Nymphadora eerily.

Draco folded his arms impatiently.

"But seriously, you were seen," she said. "Neville was patrolling around here and spotted you."

"I was seen," repeated Draco flatly. "By Longbottom. _Longbottom_ saw me."

Nymphadora nodded. "And Luna was worried," she said, "so I came by to check up."

"Luna. Luna Lovegood. Was worried about me." _Never, never, _never _did I imagine things would go this far._

"Yup," said Nymphadora. "And no wonder—not that she'd be worried about you, we would have all been surprised if it were anyone but Luna..."

"The point," said Draco.

"Don't you think you should lay low for a while? For Pansy and...everyone?"

Draco snorted. "Lay low? Here I am, sitting out in the wet, cold and hungry, talking to you. I don't think I could get much lower. And half a moment," he said, changing tracks as abruptly as his brain had, "what do mean by dragging Pansy into this?"

Nymphadora pulled several faces that Draco supposed were meant to convey something of great import, then said, "In her condition..."

"_What_ condition?" Draco asked.

Nymphadora rolled her eyes and sighed. "I just don't think a child should have to grow up without a father. Although maybe with a father like you..."

Draco was so stunned that he forgot to pretend he didn't know what she was talking about. "How did you know?"

"Please," she said. "Am I a Metamorphamagus or not?"

As this was clearly a rhetorical question, Draco waited.

"Metamorphamagi don't just know how to change their shape," she continued conversationally. "We have an innate awareness of the people around us. We can memorize faces with photographic accuracy. We can tell when someone's developing a pimple. We can..."

"Bore the stars from the sky," said Draco. "The _point_."

"I saw Pansy the other day. She's pregnant, right? Her face is a little fuller, and she's looking more furtive than usual," she said, "which is saying a lot."

Draco sputtered in a mad effort to come up with a snappy reply.

"Right," said Nymphadora. "You're not on your best game, either. Distracted. I snuck up on you, in case you've forgotten."

"I was trying to," growled Draco.

"One of you is going to get yourself killed. Or your spouse. Or both. All three, if it comes to that. The entire Malfoy family." A dreamy, faraway expression came over her face. Draco cleared his throat. "As I say," she continued. "Luna was worried."

"Tell Lovegood I don't need her pity," sneered Draco.

Nymphadora's lip curled in contempt. "You should have said you don't deserve it," she said. "I wouldn't have argued with that." She Disapparated with a pop, leaving Draco, wet, cold, hungry, and in a fouler mood than ever.

* * *

It was a full week before Pansy found out. She had entered a stage in her pregnancy in which she found herself subject to inexplicable cravings, the chief amongst which was dusting. A speck of dust anywhere in the small house she and Draco shared caused her to fall into a veritable frenzy of housecleaning. When the first fit had come on, Draco had been out tracking a former Death Eater who had said some rather unfortunate things involving the words "turncoats" and "Malfoys." He had come home and immediately assumed that Pansy had been kidnapped or killed and that the house had been taken over by someone else—perhaps a horde of liberated house elves, revenging themselves upon the man who had so carelessly blown up a whole manor full of house elves.

Naturally, this had proven to be a ridiculous assumption. Still, even after several days of this, it made Draco nervous to come home to a clean house. Something wasn't quite right. _A Malfoy's wife shouldn't have to clean like a common servant. _

Draco looked around the spotless entryway and felt a twinge of guilt. _If I hadn't left the Death Eaters, we would still have the manor. And house elves. _

_What "we"? Your wife would have been kissed by Dementors. In case you've forgotten that._

He supposed, after all, it had been a fair trade.

Pansy came down the stairs. Her face was set in an unfriendly expression, and she refused to make eye contact.

"Good evening," said Draco warily.

"There was no blood on your robes," said Pansy stiffly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"There was no _blood_ on your _robes_. Did you think I wouldn't find out?"

Draco suddenly remembered what he had told Pansy yesterday. The part about the vicious hand-to-hand struggle that had left his opponent bleeding from several deep wounds. The part that he should have omitted, considering that he had actually been wandering around the countryside for hours, cursing small forest creatures and avoiding all human and/or magical beings. Which was what he had been doing ever since his talk with Nymphadora.

_I didn't want her to find out like this. A Dark wizard who doesn't kill or curse anyone__...__. What would father say? _

It occurred to him that a truly confident wizard shouldn't care two Knuts for his father's opinion, let alone the opinion of anyone else. Even his wife.

He sauntered over to the sofa. "Have a seat," he said.

"Did you think I wouldn't..."

"I heard you the first time," he said, throwing himself nonchalantly onto the sofa and patting his lap. "Have a seat."

"And I heard _you _the first time," she said.

They stared at each other across the room. _True, that isn't as great of a distance as it once was__..._

"_I_ tell you everything," she said.

"Now where," said Draco, "would be the fun in that?"

"Draco."

Draco looked into the cold fireplace. Not one ash.

"I'm done," he said to the empty grate. "All the way, this time."

Silence.

Sounds of the house settling.

More silence.

"Why?"

"Same reason as last time," said Draco, "if you must know."

Pansy walked slowly over to sit beside him on the couch. They stared into the empty grate together for some minutes.

"You shouldn't have to do that," said Pansy. "_We_ shouldn't have to do that. We could be top-grade assassins for years. You're the most brilliant curse-caster I've ever met."

"Of course I am," said Draco. "But as...someone recently made clear to me, it would be hard to pass on all of this knowledge from beyond the grave."

"You? Caught? Killed? Unlikely," scoffed Pansy.

"You're a distraction now," said Draco brutally. "The two of you."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "All right. Just promise me it's only a hiatus. And for Merlin's sake," she added suddenly, "you don't have to get a _job_, do you?"

Draco shuddered. "We may not have the Manor," he said, "but I made sure we wouldn't have to sink _that_ low. Although," he added slowly, "it might be a bit of fun to try for a job in the Ministry...not right away, of course, because I'm trying to stay out of sight for a while."

"Wait," said Pansy. "Are you telling me you can barely leave the house?"

"I hadn't really worked that out..."

"For the next six months or so, it'll be just you and me, cooped up alone together in this house?"

"Not necessarily," said Draco. "I..."

Pansy's fingernails dug into his chin as she turned his face to hers. "Just us?" she said persistently. "Alone?" she said, digging her nails in a little deeper. "For months?"

Draco pried her hand off. "Careful, or there _will_ be blood on my robes," he smirked. "And who has time for cleaning?"

* * *

For the next several months, Draco managed to keep Pansy from cleaning anything. _I may not be killing people anymore, but at least my wife won't be getting her hands dirty with common housework._ Since he himself refused to learn any cleaning spells, the house quickly reverted to its former state of disorder. He was on the verge of heading out to find a new house elf when one showed up on their doorstep. Apparently, her masters had set her free one too many times. She was thrilled when Draco told her he would never dream of liberating a house elf, that it was positively grotesque. So that was a problem solved.

Next on his list was convincing his wife that they did not need to choose a female name. Certainly the child would be male. He would not allow it to be anything but male. Not, as he explained to Pansy, that he had anything against girls in general, but girls could not be proper heirs, despite the newfangled ideas that were becoming popular in some circles. _Other_ circles. She had conceded his point, but had countered by asking if the production of another potential heir would be such a horrible thing.

"Kindly," he said, "do not try to throw me off with silly questions."

"If you wouldn't begin with such a silly premise, I wouldn't be forced to resort to silly questions. The child could very well be female."

"I refuse," said Draco, "to discuss this any further. You may be jinxing our chances as you speak."

"Fine," said Pansy. "I'm able to come up with female names on my own. There's Rose, and Lily, and Violet, and..."

"Flower names?" said Draco incredulously. "What is this, the Malfoy Family Garden? Besides, Lily is a hideous name."

"I like it," said Pansy.

"I don't," said Draco. "It was Potter's mother's name."

"And how do you," asked Pansy, "know what Potter's mother's name was?"

"Oh, everyone knows that," said Draco.

"I didn't."

Draco waved the issue aside. "Not Lily," he said. "If it _must_ be a girl, she might as well not have a weak name."

"And what would _you_ suggest?" asked Pansy. "Dracaena?"

Draco pretended not to be intrigued.

* * *

He had never heard anyone scream like that, and he had heard more than his fair share of screaming. Part of him recalled that Pansy had not wanted any charms or spells at this time. ("I'm a Malfoy. We can handle pain.") The other part of him was beginning to think that the euphoria of becoming the mother of a Malfoy had had an adverse affect on her mental capacity. Because he had never heard anyone scream like that.

"Are you sure," he asked during a momentary lull, "that you don't want..."

"Do we have any Skele-Grow about?" she asked.

_Poor thing. Obviously quite addled. _

"If we don't, I suppose we could get some easily enough. But I don't see what..."

She grabbed his hand. "Then I don't need anything."

He gazed at her curiously. _Now what could she have meant by__...__._

And then the next wave of screaming came, and the snapping in his hand eliminated all confusion on that point. Grimacing, he stood firm. She was a Malfoy, all right. So was he. The satisfaction filling him almost overwhelmed the pain. No child of theirs could ever be weak. It would violate all known laws of the universe.

Another scream, louder and longer than those that preceded it; an instant of silence; a shrill cry.

"Is that it?" Draco asked the midwife, whose presence he had nearly forgotten until this moment. "Is that him?"

"No," answered the midwife. "It's _her_."

"Ha!" said Pansy.

A few moments more, and the midwife handed the child to Draco. "Incredible," he said. "I _made_ this..."

"HA!" said Pansy.

"Pay no attention to your mother," he whispered. "Belladonna Malfoy. Welcome to the outside world."

* * *

"You seem to be an old hand at this," said Pansy. "Been looking after small children behind my back?"

Draco shifted his daughter in his arms. "Touch someone else's mewling infant? I think not."

Pansy tilted her head to better observe her husband and child. "It just comes naturally, then?"

Draco shrugged.

"It has nothing to do with practice of any kind?"

Draco stood very still.

"With pillows and such?"

Draco became very interested in calming the already sleeping Belladonna. Pansy came up to him and ran a hand through his hair. "Just this once," she said, "I won't tell anyone."

"It wouldn't do, would it," said Draco defensively, "to be dropping my firstborn. It might ruin her looks."

"She's already disfigured," said Pansy. "Look at her nose."

"Her nose," said Draco, "is her most attractive feature."

Pansy shook her head. "Her hair," she countered, "is her most attractive feature."

"You can hardly _see_ her hair," said Draco, looking down at the thin covering of white-blond hair on the infant's head.

"You can see too much of her nose."

"Leave her nose out of it," said Draco. "It's mine."

"It's mine, actually," said Pansy.

"I am the master of the family, and as such all things belong to me," replied Draco calmly.

"I hope you don't mind if I skip the genuflecting," said Pansy. "I'm still a bit sore from producing the master's offspring."

"I'll make allowances," agreed Draco. "Don't say I never did anything for you."

"I could never say," murmured Pansy, "that you didn't do anything for me."

They settled onto the couch together, the whole Malfoy family. And even though he knew that daughters couldn't be proper heirs, Draco felt that he would be willing to give everything to this small female child, and that nothing he had would be good enough.

First thing in the morning, he'd have to go out and see what he could find for her.


End file.
